


The Garden

by staywiththething



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, and most heartbreaking thing ive ever written, dont wanna spoil anything but, this might just be the most tender
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:20:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22932439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staywiththething/pseuds/staywiththething
Summary: A revision of sorts.If Waylon had met Eddie a month prior to the breakout, if they had formed something of a friendship, if they tried to make it out of Mount Massive together, if they managed to live something of a life outside the asylum, even if its only a fantasy.
Relationships: Eddie Gluskin/Waylon Park
Comments: 11
Kudos: 67





	1. Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! I'm back at it again with a new fic, and this time it's one that's a little closer to canon whilst still also managing to be widely different from actual canon lmao  
> I'll be posting two chapters each time I upload, one set in the present (following the events of the first chapter, set on the day of the breakout) and the second chapter set in the past (the events leading up to the breakout).  
> I hope you enjoy!! <3

**DAY OF BREAKOUT**

He was sitting on the steps leading into the front entrance of the asylum, watching the sunlight play between the treetops from afar. In his hands, he held his phone, occasionally passing it from one hand to another. There was a weight blanketing him, a suffocating pressure that not even the cool September air could chill. 

He knew what had to be done, what was needed and what he _wanted_ to do. But there was so much depth to everything, like a pool so deep that you can’t tell if there’s a bottom or not, all you can see is just darker water. 

After what took place in the courtyard, he thought it best if he moved away from the asylum’s centre for his final moments. If this was to all go wrong, he didn’t want what happened in the courtyard to be his last memories of the outside. So he settled for this small slice of the world, and watched the trees and the mountains behind them, so blue and tall that they almost blended into the sky. This was his peace, his calm, his own time separate from all the horror and heartache that he’s been living with for far too long. 

He looked down to his hands and rubbed a finger against the crack along the side of his phone screen. That must have happened whilst the guards were holding him, trying to keep him apart from . . . from. No, don’t think of that now, you have other, more painful things to do before you think of that, of him, of the two of you. 

Clearing his throat, he opened his phone and found Lisa’s number. As he listened to the phone hum, he held his other hand up to his face, and breathed in the faint trace of lavender that still remained on his fingers. He closed his eyes, trying to commit the scent to memory, before he heard Lisa’s voice on the other end of the line.

“This better be good,” he heard her yawn. “First time in forever that I get a couple extra hours to spend in bed and then you ring me - you’re lucky that I like you enough to not let you go to voicemail, asshole.”

Waylon smiled, imagining Lisa rubbing the sleep from her eyes, her hair splayed wildly across her pillows. He wishes he could see her face. “Hey, Lis.”

“So, what’s up? Like I said, this shit better be good.”

Waylon didn’t say anything, instead, he raked a hand through his hair, trying to steady his heartbeat and clear his head of the smell of lavender. He could just hang up, or not say anything that he had called to say in the first place, but that’ll only serve to hurt them more than he already has. He’s harmed them by knowing them. He could stop doing all of this, there’s still time, there’s a small sliver of escape still left. It would save Lisa, save the boys, maybe even save him. He’d lose, but he’d live, even if doing nothing will slaughter him on the inside. Lisa might not ever forgive him if he puts her and the kids through this, and he may never get the chance to see or talk to her again, if these are to truly be the last words they may ever speak to one another. 

“Waylon?” he heard Lisa say, concern edging into her voice. 

_Stop this_ , end it now, abandon this plan of yours, this elaborate game you’ve been playing ever since you came here. You’re not a saint, you’re not dead; you still have a life to live, do not spend it trying to save something that’ll only ruin you further. Go, fly, what’s stopping you? _Why do you care?_

But then he thought of the smell of lavender, and a kiss that tasted like honey, and a small garden that sprouted in a cell in the depths of a mountain, and blue eyes finding him, even in total darkness, and a hand pressed against glass, searching for Waylon’s own palm to place over it. He thought of love, and that was his reason. That was why he cared, and that was why he had to hurt everything else.

“Does your mom still live up in Spokane?” he said finally.

“My mom? Yeah. Why?”

“You should go visit her. Spend some time there, bring the kids with you, your sister too, if you can,”

“What? Why?”

“You should go as soon as possible, go now, even.”

“No, I shouldn’t. Waylon, what’s wrong? Have you been crying? You sound all choked-up.”

He cleared his throat, trying to lose the trace of tears still in his voice. “I just think it’d do you good.”

“Bullshit,” Lisa hissed. He could hear her move, probably pushing herself to sit upright in her bed. “What’s going on? You sound different.”

“Lisa, I can’t elaborate. Just take the kids and go to your mother’s— “

“No, you can elaborate, and you will. I’m serious, Way.”

“So am I.”

“I know you are, I can tell - that’s what’s scaring me.” There was a pause between them. Then, gently, Lisa asked, “Waylon, has something happened?”

 _If only you knew_. “Yes, Lisa,” he yielded, the sensation of tears clogging his throat returning. “Something’s come up. So I need you and the kids to leave town for a little while, just until they . . . they . . .”

“They what, Waylon? Who’re ‘they’?”

“Until they stop looking for you, or just give up. It’s me they’ll want at first, not you, but they still might come for you and I can’t risk it. They know about you, about the kids, they’ll get to me through you. They might know about your mom and sister, too, but I don’t know where else you’ll be safe. Get out of California, at least.”

“Waylon,” Lisa whispered. “What’ve you done?”

“I . . . I can’t tell you that, not now.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

“I’ll tell you the next time I see you. It’s best if you know as little as possible. Just, please, get out of town. You’ll need to leave the hospital and take the kids out of school for a bit, but it’s all to protect you. Lisa, _please_.”

But Lisa continued to protest, and he continued to plead. “Lisa- no, please- just. Lisa, listen to me.”

“But I don’t understand, Way.” She sounded broken, matching Waylon’s pain with her confusion. “None of this makes any sense. I can’t just up and leave for however long you need me, not without you telling me why first.”

“But you _have_ to. You have to, Lisa. I don’t know how else to protect you, at least you’re further away from harm if you leave. Please, Lisa, I need you to swear to me that you’ll go, befor—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence, as a presence behind him suddenly yanked his phone out of his hand. He whirled around, and was met with the face of a guard standing above him. Lisa’s voice was faintly calling out to him, before the guard hung up the call and pocketed his phone. Waylon shot up to his feet. “Hey, that’s mine.”

“And you’ll get it back after your done downstairs.”

“But I want it back now.”

The guard chuckled. “It’s time you headed down. I’ll walk with you.”

The guard walked away from the outside steps and into the front of the asylum, When he noticed that Waylon wasn’t following him, he spoke over his shoulder. “Blaire assured me that you’d come quietly, Mr Park. I suggest that you do so, especially after that seen you made earlier. Or do I need to restrain you, like you were last time? I’d hate to do that, sir, I really would - wouldn’t wanna give anyone anymore insentive to think you’re as crazy as everyone seems to think you are. People are starting to worry about you more than their patients. Gluskin’s been quite the influence on you, hasn’t he? You wanna prove me wrong, Park? You can - all you gotta do to shut me up, is do as I say and come quietly, and we can head down in total, blissful silence. Lord knows you’ve had enough of a rough day without me talking to you. So let’s go, Park. Get to work.”

Waylon looked back out to the world lying outside the asylum. There was no time to commit it all to memory, no time to weep or worry about Lisa. She’d do what he asked of her, or at least he hoped she would. _She will. She must._ All there was left to do was to put one foot in front of the other, and get to work. 

He nodded, casting one last glance to the light in the doorway, before he headed inside, ignoring the guard’s scornful appraisals and walked down hallway after hallway. Onwards, to the final act. 

💮💮💮

They had confiscated his laptop, along with the rest of his things, so he had to settle for a borrowed laptop, relying on a hastily downloaded onion router and a firewall patch to carry him through. There was little time to waste, he hardly spent any seconds checking to see if what he was typing was in any way legible, his hands shaking as he typed, powered by nerves and adrenaline. He knew he had to be quick, he was already running late, hiding in the back some server room and working under the guise of refining pieces of code for the engine. Just another minute, half a minute, ten seconds.

Miles Upshur; a name he had never heard of before last night. His apparent infamy among the journalism scene didn’t inspire much confidence in Waylon as he dug through his variously poorly organised sites, but Waylon wasn’t exactly spoilt for choice. Anyone from somewhere more ‘established’ wouldn’t take him seriously, not without a manifold proof that Waylon didn’t possess. All he had was the folder Blaire had given him, which he had wedged between the pipes of the kitchen sink and was relying on sheer dumb luck that it would remain there until he returned to the house. So, minus proof, he was resorting to scraping the bottom of the barrel. At least this Upshur character seemed, if nothing else, resolute in his approach to covering stories regardless of their differening levels of believability; his speciality fluctuating between conspiracy theories and rants surrounding America’s top ten companies, Murkoff being at the top of every list. _That_ was what got Waylon’s attention; Upshur was freelance, stationed in Colorado and had a palpable hatred for Murkoff. If Waylon’s email didn’t rouse his interest, then he was more doomed than he realised, and he was already in the jaws of the dragon, sending out an SOS on a laptop that no amount of last-minute safeguarding could hold back from being monitored. Blaire was probably watching him type out his sloppy exposé from his desk right this second.

White light that wasn’t from the screen on the laptop or the blinking indicators of the severs flooded into the room. Showtime. 

“Who’s in here?” he heard a voice call a few feet away. “The hell are you doing?”

He tapped the keyboard blindly, not even making sure that his message was sent before he closed the screen and pulled it into his arms. He rose from where he had been sitting on the cold concrete floor and headed towards the door. A figure hung in the doorway —too casually dressed to be a guard, a lesser member of staff, perhaps, sent to collect him— and sighed tiredly as Waylon approached him, recognising him immediately. “Park? They’ve paged for you three times already, there’s something urgent at the engine. Blaire’s been demanding for you for the past twenty minutes.”

Waylon shuffled passed him, muttering something about just needing to ‘finish up’ to the exhausted guard, before he entered the freezing hallway that lied outside. 

As if on autopilot, he journeyed to the engine room, passing new and old faces, catching whispers and conversations. Weekend plans and work-related issues. All remarkably casual topics for operators of one of the most devastating biometric slaughterhouses of the twenty-firt century. Some pointed and glared at him, tapping their friends to join in, others didn’t so much as look his way, purposely tuning their backs to him. With all of them, though, Waylon saw them trying to watch him for the corner of their eyes. Some laughed, some shook their heads in dismay, but no one of them seemed sympathetic; it was unanimous, their hatred of him. Very well. He wondered if Julia and Helena were this despised, if they felt ashamed, or guilty, or damned. Perhaps they didn’t, because they had a worthy cause for being hated, because they thought that there was at least one person down here who loved them. Or, at the very least, didn’t hate them. And down here, not being hated, even by yourself, is as good as love can get.

Overhead, he heard his name being called over the speakers. Blaire had certainly wanted to make it known that there were no long any cracks in the walls for him to stow himself away in. His last moments at Mount Massive would be spent following Blaire’s design. There was to be no wriggle room for whistleblowing in the backs of his servers, he would see to that. For all Waylon knew, there was no ending lying above ground for him, no sweet conclusion. Perhaps, the most he could hope for was a bullet to the back of the skull once he’s finished his work. At least that way, there’d be no need to go after Lisa and the kids. He’d die down here, buried in the same mountain as Eddie. Oh, Eddie.

The guard manning the entrance door to the engine saw him coming and took a brief moment to berate him before opening the steel sliding door. Once Waylon walked through it, it came sliding down, closing with a defining boom. As he walked, the lights above him seemed to be flickering. Or maybe it was just his imagination, his vision narrowing at the sight of his destination ahead of him.

Another guard saw him and ushered him inside with one might daresay a slightly sympathetic tone. It was as much kindness Waylon’s heard from another staff member during his whole time at Mount Massive. 

Stepping inside the engine room was like entering a coffin. The air was too clean, too electric. Someone noticed him and moved towards him, gesturing him to take his seat at the edge of the short balcony ahaead. Over the ravenous hum of the engine, he heard them say, “ . . . patient’s incoming and Arterial Spin’s still dark. We need you at the front terminal.”

Too fast, this was all happening too fast. Shouldn’t he be struggling? Swearing and kicking and screaming that he’ll never do what they ask of him. But he wasn’t. Instead, he was nodding, and following instructions, walking diligently to his chair. There were more voices, debating with him, or about him, and he looked at the faces talking down at him, but his gaze wouldn’t focus, blind to them and their demands. His hearing sounded like he was underwater, everything blurred and enveloped in cotton. Functional Imaging interface . . . ASL . . . something about a patient. It didn’t matter, he managed to pick through enough of their speech to get the information he needed and looked to the screen they all seemed so concerned with. 

His fingers moved before he even realised. He’s done this a thousand times before, night after night spent operating and watching in horror as the engine broke minds and bled souls dry. How did he ever sleep? How could he ever close his eyes and not hear the bestial fire of the engine ring in his ears, or not see its white lightning strike across his memory? How was he not in some way plagued?

Because he didn’t let himself think about it. And if he did, he only ever thought of one particular time, of a certain patient. And then his nightmares would melt like snow, and he’d think of warmer times, of blue eyes and gentle smiles, of someone who never knew that Waylon was one of those responsible for all of this terror.

Before he even finished typing, the screen flashed with line after line of red-coloured ‘ERROR’s. From a nearby radio, a relay sounded from whatever team was manning the engine from below the balcony. “Uh, fMRI is still dark.”

Waylon cursed whilst someone scoffed beside him. This could be his chance, a way to make it seem like an accident. This was his out. But then he felt two hands clamp down on his shoulders behind him, and a sickening voice spoke above him. “You’re doubting our friend Mr Waylon Park?” asked Blaire, “Which I consider more than unkind to his programming skill and considerable dedication to the Murkoff corporation.”

The radio spluttered lines of apologies, their voice rushed as they attempted to cover up whatever dire mistake they just made. “No, Mr Blaire. My apologies, Mr Park. I do not doubt your contribution to the Morpho—”

“That’s enough,” Blaire snapped, silencing the radio. In his peripheral vision, he watched Blaire come to his side, bending to meet his gaze more appropriately. “Are we happy, Mr Park?” he inquired. Waylon took several shallow breaths, his gaze wavering as he drove himself to stare at the screen before him. He’s here, isn’t that all Blaire wants? He will sit and watch, but he will not give him the benefit of looking him in the eye. Before Waylon could answer him, however, he was interrupted by a faceless member of staff. “Fuck me - they’re bringing him in.”

Waylon heard Eddie before he saw him, though he wishes he wasn’t able. He wished he could pretend he was immune to his voice, that he wouldn’t know it in a sea of strangers. It would make this easier if they had no history, no care. He stared ahead, focusing on his work as he heard Eddie cry.

“I knew it was coming! Your filth fucking machine. You fucking machines!” He sounded manic, pained. He didn’t sound like himself, or maybe this is truly how scared Eddie was of the engine, not as numbed to its torture as he had Waylon believe when they first spoke all those weeks ago. Over his entire time of knowing Eddie, he has felt several ways about the man, most of his emotions perpetually orbiting both pain and love. But this was something different, something so terrifying and new that he didn’t think his heart had room for such an emotion. It was a deep tearing in his chest, the kind of tear you feel form in your soul when you lose something, the kind of tear that cannot be restitched or resealed, mended or healed. This was a tear that came with loss. And Waylon had lost. He was losing, losing Eddie.

A hand clamped around the back of his neck, and then he felt Blaire his against the side of his face. “I want you to see this, Park. I want you to see what we’ve been working towards, after all this time. What you’ve helped give to this project.” When the hand on his neck didn’t prove enough, he grabbed Waylon’s throat, pushing his head up. “ _Look_.”

Through tears, he watched Eddie struggle at the foot of the engine. The lighting of the engine was dim, but his figure was clear. They had stripped him of his jumpsuit, and there were fresh injuries blooming over his skin. He continued to scream, “No! No, not again. No! No! Jack-booted fucks, I know what you’ve been doing to me. I know what you’ve been . . .” There were only two men grappling with him, Waylon knowing that they weren’t going to be enough to restrain Eddie, not in this state. In his crazed fright, Eddie delivered a series of punches to each of his guards, only needing just one to loosen his grip before he was able to wrench himself clean of both of them. 

Waylon’s whole body shook with each blow Eddie dealt and every blow he suffered. Blaire had instructed him before, in the quiet of his kitchen in Leadville, that he wouldn’t intervene. And he did, but it was hard to bite down on the scream bubbling in the back of his throat, his jaw locking from the strain of staying silent. _Wait, just wait_ . _This won’t last_. But Eddie didn’t stop his raving, his voice hoarse from the stress of howling, “Help! Help me! Help me, they’re going to rape me! Rape! Rape!”

It didn’t take long for a third guard to intervene, pointing some heavy gun at Eddie’s back as he wrestled with the guards. Waylon pleaded, in the confines of his mind, for Eddie to stop, that if they let him in there, he could somehow calm him. Or was that just more wishful thinking? Would Eddie even recognise him in this state, or would he crush his skull like a piece of fruit? Waylon didn’t know who this man was, and it scared him. This wasn’t the man that smiled so genuinely to him, that laughed so freely with him, that he loved so earnestly. This man was afraid, insane with fear, and it broke Waylon to watch him shake and struggle for a life that, even if he was allowed to live it, wouldn’t really be living. But Waylon won’t be the one that kills him, no matter how tightly Blaire gripped his neck and breathed threats into his ear, that is the one thing he’ll always refuse. 

There was a louder struggle, someone grunting from a particularly hard punch, and then Eddie was free. Like a cornered deer, he looked at every possible angle of escape, and when he realised the futility in trying to leave, he rushed towards the glass, nearly knocking Waylon backwards from the force at which he threw his body against the cased terminal. 

Against the glass, Waylon could seem him more clearly. How horrible, to have spent so much time wondering about the skin beneath the jumpsuits Eddie always buttons so tightly around himself, not even showing a wrist or a collarbone, and for it to now be laid out in front of him in such an atrocious display. His body was littered with bruises and cuts, the blue sheen of the engine seeming to make them glow wretched shades of purple and navy. Eddie’s handsome face was pulled taught with fear, his eyes so wild, Waylon couldn’t even tell if he was even really looking at anything. Blaire’s arms returned to their hold on Waylon’s shoulders, locking him in his seat and stopping him from surging forward and over the desk to meet with Eddie. 

Perhaps he imagined it, just more fantastical dreaming, but for a moment, Eddie’s eyes locked onto his, and a flash of recognition —so slight it might never have even happened— broke through his expression. He slammed his fists against the glass, the strength at which he used to do so managing to shake the monitors on the other side of the thick screen. “You!” he roared, the blue wildfire in his eyes frightening Waylon. “I know you can stop this! You have to help me! You have to . . .”

Out of desperation, Waylon leant forward, urgency pushing him towards Eddie whilst his voice failed him. But Blaire’s grip remained, leaving him to grip the arms of his chair as he watched gloved hands curl across Eddie’s arms and throat and pull him away from the glass. Someone delivered a strike to the side of Eddie's skull, subduing him enough to be hauled away and taken to his pod.

A guard near him asked him if he was alright, but he was warded away by Blaire, who feigned his deadly hold on Waylon as some sort of support. “It’s all right, agent,” he reassured. “Mr Park was just surprised. I’m sure he’s still calm and eager to finish his work.” Then, once the guard returned to his position, Blaire spat in his ear, “If I see one tear on your face, I’ll burn it off with a soldering iron. Now, fix my machine, Park. Before I have to make your head roll from wasting my time.”

He shoved his chair back under the desk, releasing his shoulders as he got back to work. The entire time he focused on the monitor, he felt Blaire’s eyes on him, silently wounding him the longer he took to observe him. 

Determined to not crumble just yet —there is still work left to do, after all. Just one more phase— Waylon worked intensely on getting the engine up and running. “Five seconds, Park,” he heard Blaire say behind him. “Four. Three . . .” Soon enough, the rows of red ‘ERROR’s evaporated, and the screen filled with something else. 

A live feed from inside Eddie’s pod. A severe shot of his face. Waylon tried to smother the gasp that was trying to leave him, his mouth falling open as he soundlessly sobbed at the sight before him on the monitor. Under a harsh white light, Eddie hung in his pod, his arms pulled tightly behind his back, with wires and tubing feeding into him. He’s seen this before, plenty of times, but never up close, never this close with Eddie. Tubes were stuffed down his throat and up his nostrils, the video’s audio catching his muffled groaning as he suffocated on the material. His head lolled, trying to find some angle to relieve the pain as his bloodshot eyes rolled around in their sockets. The longer he watched, the more his face seemed to change. His skin was deteriorating, falling off from the bone and blossoming into blisters and raw tissue. Eddie flinched as the skin around his right eye rotted off, and a deep gauge cut its way along his mouth and nose, as if an invisible knife was being dragged across his face. 

Waylon reached out a hand to the corner of the monitor, pulling it closer towards him. He couldn’t look away. It was like watching an avalanche, or the eruption of a volcano, but worse, much worse, because it was the destruction of something far, far more important than molten rock or sheets of snow. Rage flooded him, and he knew what had to be done, how things really needed to end. Or begin. 

Behind him, he heard Blaire ask, “Are you done, Park?”

“Almost,” he muttered, typing one more line of code. It was something he had committed to memory, something that he had been up all night perfecting, so much so that he didn’t need to look at his hands to know that he was typing it correctly. All he could do was watch Eddie, as the patient stared hopelessly into the camera inches from his decaying face. When he stopped, he turned his chair to face Blaire.

Blaire tilted his head, everything about him suggesting that he had won. “Happy?” he smirked.

“No,” Waylon answered. And before confusion even had the chance to settled onto Blaire’s face, he hit the last key on the keyboard, and then everything went black. As the entire room began to shake, the last thing he heard before darkness overcame him was the sound of Blaire screaming his name and the shattering roar of the engine falling apart.


	2. Daises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter that takes place before the breakout in chapter one - lemme know if I should keep up this format!  
> I really wanted to give Lisa more a personality in this fic cus I adore her lmao, even if she's something of a minor character in this fic.

**31 DAYS UNTIL BREAKOUT**

The August heat, though beginning to succumb to September’s oncoming (and far cooler) embrace, nevertheless continued to fill the hospital’s halls to the brim, tainting the air with a sickly afterglow that smelt of humidity and hot tea. This same heat was what was coloured the evening a light gold, dipping any surface that wasn’t shielded in cool shadows in a sweet orange, the wooden floors and walls all on fire as the sun began to set. It was at times like this, in this old structure and in such light, surrounded by nothing but mountains and forestry that guarded the place like old gods, that Waylon liked Mount Massive best. When the hospital, with the right angles and mindset, might have been mistaken for a school, or a monastery; it’s gothic towers like the hackles of a cat’s back, and the faded oak, which supported nearly all of the hospital’s older foundations, stretching like whale bones along the hospital’s ceilings. It all lent itself to some notion of peace, of unbroken silence. An autumn tree that had yet to surrender its crumbling leaves.

But such notions were always quickly cast aside in Mount Massive, especially when those that worked in the confines of its halls heard Waylon Park coming, his sneakers scuffing the wooden floors and his passing shadow, though only momentarily, tainting the lighted walls. Waylon was still new to Mount Massive (Waylon found the name extremely apt) and its cavernous paths. Every day it seemed to him that the staircases grew two extra steps, the elevators sprouted another floor button and the hallways produced one more foot of walkway. The place was a maze, where none of the maps plastered on all the walls and doors could help, and anyone he asked for directions from seemed to make next to no sense no matter how many times he apologised and asked for them to repeat themselves. 

Even after almost two months —a month and eighteen days to be exact, since his beginning in the start of July— working at the hospital (he always referred to it as ‘the hospital’, which he hoped, at its core, that it still was), Waylon still found himself rushing around trying to get to wherever he needed to be on time. This time he was required _downstairs_ , below surface level. The part of the hospital that wasn’t a hospital at all. It wasn’t an asylum either. Waylon didn’t know what to call it, so he settled for what everyone else referred to it as _downstairs_. Low work with low morals. Where the August heat never reached.

Another hallway, another staircase, another floor. As he half-ran-half-walked towards the elevator (or at least, where he hoped the elevator was), Waylon’s mind wandered. He had only been downstairs a handful of times, and in all of those trips, he was there for less than ten minutes and hadn’t even made it into the belly of the level. He didn’t know exactly what went on downstairs. He never asked, insisting that he never cared to know, that it wasn’t his business. In reality, it was because he was unnerved at the thought of knowing just what downstairs was precisely meant for. There were rumours, of course, but Waylon couldn’t bear to discover if what really happens downstairs is better than the rumours, or worse. His contract said that he was supposed to be working with Murkoff Corporation, as a software consultant, but he had yet to consult on anything he considered relevant. He liked to think of Mount Massive as a sort of great stately home, considering the surface of the hospital as where all the lords and ladies stay, walking its grand halls with a sense of purpose (and above all, a desire to help their patients) and filling their offices with frame after frame of expensive oil paintings and important certificates. Whilst downstairs was full of worker bees, bustling yet quiet, performing tasks that need never be known by the high society above. And Waylon? Waylon was something of a liaison; flitting between downstairs and up, but necessary in one world as much as he was in the other, even if nobody had yet to so much as blink twice at him. Nevermind, he enjoyed his invisibility. It made the job easier. He had no intentions of rushing downstairs to tend to their medieval instruments of torture.

Turning one last corner, the elevator was now in sight. Adjusting the strap of his messenger bag for what must be the hundredth time today, Waylon made his way over to it, pressed one of the brass buttons next to the shutters and waited, giving himself a few moments to roll his neck and catch his breath. He checked his watch. His visit downstairs will be his last ‘appointment’ before its time to head home, back to the small house he had rented for himself in Leadville. If he was smart about it, he could make it back in time to call Lisa before she put the kids to bed.

The elevator announced its arrival with a tired rattle and Waylon stepped inside, scanning the array of floor options before finding the right one. The elevator was empty, thankfully, and descended rather quickly into the fluorescent-lit gloom of the lower levels.

The elevator creaked to a stop and rolled its door open, the old-timey contraption a complete contrast to the hallway before it. Waylon stepped out, tugging his jumper sleeves past his wrists in a weak attempt to warm himself. The elevator closed its doors behind him and left as soon as it was empty, no doubt having been called somewhere far more important, its departure leaving Waylon feeling oddly lonely. 

Onwards now. Unlike the older parts of the hospital, downstairs was simple in its construction, trading oak for cement, class for practicality, light for darkness. Waylon’s footsteps echoed against the linoleum flooring. No need to worry about getting lost here, aside from a few stray paths, everything was in one direction: forwards. He hurried nonetheless, remembering his distaste for the indifferent hallways and unkind lights.

The call he got to come downstairs sounded urgent. Something about one of the monitoring cells’ software was acting up. Risk of wasting valuable time for experimentation and breakthroughs in research, yadda yadda. It was probably nothing, half of his time working at the hospital was spent helping agents and therapists get into their emails. It was a definite waste of his talent, but he wasn’t about to complain about it anytime soon. It was easy money, even if his only holdup was the canteen food. He doesn’t know how much more he can take of the hospital’s signature dish: half-frozen sandwiches and stale sponge cake slices. 

After several little escapades spent flashing his security pass to numerous bored-looking guards, Waylon was finally ushered into monitoring cell 5. The cell reminded him of a movie theatre, or an interrogation room in some dumb cop show, two-way mirror and all. He was on the ‘cop’ side, his entrance announced by the loud clicking of the door shutting behind him, silencing the steady conversation that filled the room. Tens of darkly-lit faces turned to him. He had half a mind to crack some dumb joke, some cheap shot about how he was expecting to see them all in labcoats or hazmat suits. He thought better of it. 

One of the faces, a scientist sat close to the mirror snapped their fingers and beckoned him over. Waylon made his way over awkwardly, trying his best to stop his bag from brushing against anyone. Lit only by computer screens and LED lights bordering the desks and walls, the room somehow felt both incredibly large and extremely cramped. He stumbled past everyone, pretending not to hear the dark bodies’ muttering and tutting. An exhausted voice called out from the desk as he approached it.

“Park, right? Goddamnit, get over here.” Waylon blindly followed the tired tone, only knowing he made it to the desk by doubling over it as he walked into it. “Shit, sorry,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, yeah. Just fix this alright?”

“Sure.” He dumped his bag on what he hoped was a surface devoid of any important dials or buttons and leaned in over the computer that the scientist was gesturing at. “Sorry, but uh, could you remind me just what the problem here is?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” a voice behind him hissed, drawing a few chuckles from neighbouring faces. 

“The problem?” The scientist echoed. “The problem is, is that we’ve got a patient in the other half of this cell and we can’t fucking see him.”

“So . . . you want me to turn the lights on?”

“Wh- are you fucking with me?”

“What? No! I—”

“Because if you are, then you are wasting valuable time and resources on behalf of the Murkoff Corporation and Mount Massive Asylum, the boards of which are both known for being highly unimpressed with software engineers that think they’re funny.”

Waylon closed his mouth. In the dim lighting, the shadows of everyone’s faces were harsh and seemed as if they were painted, reminding him of highschool drama masks. A whole room of them, only they all conveyed the same vacant, unamused expression. The scientist pointed to a blank screen to Waylon’s right. “That—” he said as he tapped it— “needs to be on. We work with night vision so the lights need to off on both sides so as to not interfere with the . . . treatment.” He cleared his throat. “And right now our guy in there is walking around blind and if you don’t hurry up then he’s going to riot and then we’re _all_ fucked. So fix it.” The guy patted Waylon’s back a bit too aggressively. “Now.”

So Waylon worked. There was not a lot to it, yet the fact that he knew he was being watched only served to ail his anxiety further. This was why he despised working downstairs. He felt like a canary amongst bats. There was no sunlight or mountaintops here, only tired faces and whirring machines. 

Then the lights came on. There weren’t supposed to, but they did. In proper lighting, Waylon now realised just how small the room actually was. The scientists looked a lot more human now, the harsh shadows vanished from their faces. They were shocked first, comically so, but then they began to talk, loudly. Waylon’s gut churned. The scientist that had told him to fix everything shook his had. He’s a lot shorter than he sounds. 

“I didn’t . . . that wasn’t me,” Waylon insisted. The scientist wasn’t even looking at him, instead, he turned to the crowd, raising his arms and flapping his hands until they quietened down. “Alright, alright people. How about we—” he flicked his wrist to check his watch—“take a ten-minute break while Mr Park cleans up things around here, yeah?” He looked over his shoulder to glare at Waylon.

The rest of them filed out, leaving Waylon alone. He watched the door, expecting a guard or someone to step in to watch him. He’s never been left alone downstairs before. A chill was beginning to creep into the room.

Keeping his head down, he focused on his newfound priority; to getting this thing fixed asap and leaving the second he’s done. Done and back up to where the air isn’t ventilated and doesn’t smell of bleach. Back to his shitty rental home where he can call Lisa in California before she goes out to work and hear all about her kids’ day at school. 

The room on the other side of the mirror was still pitch black. Waylon couldn’t hear anyone on the other side. No heavy footsteps, no rampant breathing, no screaming. No sign of insanity. Come to think of it, Waylon had barely seen any patients since he started at Mount Massive. That was another downstairs issue; no patients walking the halls in their scuffed sneakers and worn flannels on the surface. 

The chill in the room intensified. As he worked, he stopped every now and then, wary of even the smallest of sounds. Things that sounded like things that weren’t real. Something out of nothing. Shadow puppets and magic tricks. _What you can’t see can’t hurt you. Grow up._

He kept working. He managed to get the lights back off, the room expanding in darkness once more. Except now the darkness was something of a comfort, like when you get the urge to fall asleep in a movie theatre. The darkness reminded him of college, of cramming for an assignment at the last minute whilst trying to not wake up his roommate. The soft glow of his laptop and a bowl of cheap ramen noodles to keep him company.

A few more minutes and he’d be done. And if he times things right, he’ll catch the sunset on his drive home. 

With a flourish and a very small smile, he leant back from his work and hit the last key needed on the keyboard. He considered trying to find that scientist and tell him that he fixed his damn light show. He got up and reached for his messenger bag, slinging it back over his shoulder and rolled his neck again. Maybe he ought to buy painkillers at some point. Without Lisa to remind him about his shitty posture, his back pain was only getting worse and worse. 

Then there was a sound. Not a sound that he had imagined. An actual, physical sound that rooted him to the spot. A shallow _thud_ , then silence, a silence that ruined him the longer he stewed in it. He looked up at the two-way mirror that was bathed in black. The patient.

Be it morbid curiosity, or sheer stupidity, but Waylon’s hand, numb from the rest of his body, reached for the lights on the other side. The action, however dumb, was somewhat cushioned by the childish idea that the mirror would act as his shield from whatever hell lies on the other side. Nothing can nor will hurt him, at least, not physically. Holding his breath, he turned on the lights.

A man. A tall man. A broad man. A _huge_ man. A man with his gigantic hand on the reinforced plexiglass of the two-way mirror, on Waylon’s shield. And he, with eyes so blue it looked like a trick of the light, some sick illusion, was looking straight down at Waylon. He watched him with a look so dead, so barren, so beyond any sign of recognition or humanity. He looked lost.

All of this was what Waylon thought as he turned away, his mind relaying and extending the single second he saw the man into what felt like decades worth of memories. He clambered wildly away from the mirror, the mirror that wasn’t a two-way mirror at all, but a regular, old fashioned, fucking window. 

He ran out of the room, relying on muscle memory to guide him down the hall and into the elevator, his vision having gone slack and his grip on the strap of his bag so deathly that it made his knuckles cramp. He needed fresh air, mountain air that can fill his head and lungs and ground him. To distract him from terrifying thoughts of dark mirrors and sad blue eyes. 

He passed some important-looking people that he vaguely remembered being in the monitoring room. “What’s up with him?” “Gluskin must’a spooked him.” “Guy’s got a level three security clearance and he never fuckin’ uses it.” “Why bother giving him clearance if he doesn’t even work here.” “Run, rabbit, run!” Their teasing and their laughter echoed against the cold walls. Was that the name behind those eyes? That hand on the glass that felt like both a threat and an offering? Gluskin?

The elevator ride was slow, painfully so. The break for the surface seemed impossible, the idea of seeing orange sunlight again preposterous, but it happened, and Waylon finally stopped holding his breath. 

But he had left his mind in monitoring cell 5, and it was still hanging frozen in that one second Waylon and that patient had shared. Gluskin. It sounded familiar, a name from some late-night news story he and his college friends half-watched in their dorm common room. He tried to imagine Gluskin’s mugshot on a TV screen, his image flickering and rupturing as video often did in the nineties. What had Gluskin done to land himself in a hell like that? He looked so pale in his grey jumpsuit. When did he last see sunlight? The man’s life a tragic routine composed of getting dragged from machine to machine, a different organ grinder a week. Meals contrived of pills and rotten medicine. No wildflowers or pine-needles in the bowels f Mount Massive.

💮💮💮

The drive home should have been delightful, and yet all Waylon could think of was Gluskin. Gluskin, a man that looked more than capable of breaking through that glass and breaking Waylon over his thigh, that had been stood mere a mere foot away from him and just watched him. And what did Waylon do in return? He ran out, fuelled by a concoction of horror stories and true-crime documentaries that drove him away and left Gluskin in the dark once again.

This was all his empathy talking, stretching that split second he had with Gluskin into some guilt-ridden reflection spanning hours. Good, healthy men don’t get a cell in Mount Massive, and the same went for the people that land jobs in the same hospital. Not even Waylon could claim virtue; he was no better nor worse than the overpaid snakes that loomed in the hospital’s corners. He had exchanged his morals for a five-digit paycheck and in a month or so he’d be free of that place and its underground atrocities, then he will have the rest of his life to forget and romanticise and recreate everything he saw. He will forget the steel holding cells and metal swinging doors and replace them with the smell of fir trees, the sound of geese flying overhead and the feeling of safety he felt when he reminded himself of the fact that he had always had to option to leave, which is more than he can say for most of the inhabitants of Mount Massive. And, maybe, in the future, a year or twenty from now, he’ll read a report of Murkoff being sued for crimes against humanity, and people will ask him “Didn’t you work there once?” and he will just shuffle his feet and clear his throat before saying, “Yes, I did, but you must understand that I was only there for a very short amount of time where I saw very little and never bared witness to what they were really doing behind closed doors. Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I must be on my way.” 

It was a nice fantasy, and not only was it nice but it was believable, attainable. So why could he not seem to cling to it as tightly as he did with the memory of Gluskin’s palm against the glass and his blue eyes, rimmed red with fatigue? How is it that he feels more connected to this madman in a cell fathoms beneath the earth than he does to anyone else that he’s encountered during his time at Mount Massive? He shook his head. Isolation was changing him, now he was finding friends in psychopaths. He needs to call Lisa. He misses California, where the yellow sun smoothes out problems like an iron. Colorado is too rocky, unstable, the earth is uneven and crumbles right underneath your feet. 

He has only been to Colorado once before, on a long camping holiday with his family. He must have been about ten or nine, stalking the miles of forestry that encompassed their campsite with his cousins, always trailing behind to pick up rocks that were just too smooth to not hold and retrieve fallen branches that _demanded_ that they are to be used as a staff, perfect for such journeys. He often looked back on that holiday with fondness, blaming the rose-coloured lenses people tend to use whenever they look back on their childhood, back where water tasted the freshest and sunlight was at its most welcoming and grass never felt brittle. Does Gluskin have those memories? Or was he forged in the dark, his memories ripped from him by darkly lit doctors with nothing better to do than throw him in a cell and see what drives him insane today? Hollowed out and propped out, having nothing but his hand and his blue eyes to try and reach out for help.

Waylon gripped the steering wheel tightly. Why did he care about Gluskin? Chances are he will never see him again, he’ll take his money and return to California whilst Gluskin gets quietly dusted under the rug like a dropped teacup, along with the countless other souls Mount Massive must be hoarding. 

He once watched this movie with Lisa; a documentary about fur farms. One of the scenes was of some found footage an ex-worker at a farm took: rows and rows of foxes in these minuscule wire cages, all stacked upon one another like grotesque Christmas presents. Some of the foxes were so starved it looked like their eyes were going to fall out of their sockets and roll away like marbles. Others had patches of fur ripped clean from their skin, a result of fighting with the other animals for food or space. Some were overbred within an inch of their lives, their skin bunched up in rolls over their bones like when a lady picks up her skirt to walk properly, their bodies too big for them to cope. Lisa stopped it halfway, saying it made her feel sick, Waylon couldn’t say he blamed her, it made his stomach churn to just recall it now. He remembered being so _angry_ as he watched it as well. Angry at the people who had profited from those charred and shaking bodies, who walked the earth as self-proclaimed ‘civilians’. There isn’t a single civil thing about it, and he said as much to Lisa as he sat fuming on her couch. She just patted his knee and fed him some reassuring line he forgot as soon as she said it. He appreciated the effort, but it did little to cool him. He wanted to do something, to break something, to scream out some profanity that could solve everything with just its utterance. 

A week passed, though, and he was back to normal. He forgot about the sick foxes with pelts that melt off their skin like spoilt butter and went onto other things, bigger, more personal things. Studying for his degree and figuring out what he wanted to do after college became his new priority, not the fate of some pained animals in a warehouse in a country he’s never visited getting killed to make coats he’ll never be able to afford. Liberating foxes in Russia or Finland or wherever wasn’t his calling, but he felt bad about it now, as he sat thinking about it, so that still makes him a good person, right?

Right?

💮💮💮

The house he had rented out was on the edge of Leadville, a full hour’s drive from the hospital and picked out especially for him by Murkoff, with him graciously only having to pay a small cut of the rent while he stayed. In theory, it sounded like a gracious offer, one that Waylon gladly took Murkoff up on without much care or consideration. Upon reflection, however, Waylon realised perhaps he should have looked up the address of the place before he so freely signed the rent agreement. Murkoff had failed to mention the peeling white paint on his bedroom walls, or the broken blinds that refused to up or down in the small print of their contract. Though he guessed he only had himself to blame for that; Murkoff wasn’t exactly renowned for being a trustworthy corporation. Every week it seemed that the corporation had a new lawsuit to battle: accusations of funding terrorist organisations to promote sales in their hardline security division, allegations of burning reports of severe malpractices of regulating nanotechnology and cyber-security and claims of defamation of ex-Murkoff employees who have gone on to testify against them. None of these things ‘mattered’, though, like the patients hidden away in the depths of the mountain Waylon lived no more than an hour away from, they were all smothered. Testimonies would be scrambled, witnesses would go missing, justice would go blind. None of it was legal, but that never seemed to affect Murkoff, they had too much momentum to ever show signs of slowing down, least of all for a few hundred thousand protestors and annual Senate hearings. Waylon was a blip on their radar, a millimetre of ripped silk in their miles-wide spider’s web. They didn’t need to tempt him with anything more than a house with a decent view of the mountains and a comfortable paycheck for his input.

Now, as he pulled up to his temporary house, the white paintwork burning a faint red in the fading sunlight, he couldn’t shake the feeling of somehow being . . . stained. Everything Murkoff touched was immediately dirtied. How many others have lived in this house before him, lured in by whatever siren song Murkoff churns out for them? Where are they now? As he got out of his car, cool mountain air ruffling his hair and chilling his skin as he walked to the door, no one else in sight, he felt like a ghost; free but tethered to something he can’t see. What is he staying here for? Surely it can’t just be for a break in the mountains and a neat little paycheck. What is he waiting for? _There has to be more to it than this_. 

Against the sky, the mountains stood against the dipping sun like strips of black velvet, and Waylon was suddenly hit with the notion that he has never felt more alon in all his life.

💮💮💮

His contract prohibits any contact with friends and family during his employment. When he inquired as to why, they gave him some off-handed excuse about security. Empty filler words that sounded heavy but didn’t actually hold any weight in the air. Waylon perceived it as more of a loose suggestion than a solid rule, which is why he was waiting for Lisa to respond to his Skype call at any minute. 

He sat his laptop on the kitchen counter, turning around to fix himself some food. The nearest Target was in Denver, a whole ninety-minute drive from Leadville, so he had to forgo anything substantial for microwave meals. As he absent-mindedly read the tiny script on the back of the packaging for his dinner, he heard a familiar voice call out behind him.

“God, you look like shit from the back - when’s the last time you cut your hair?”

He turned around already smiling. The signal up here was beyond terrible but it more than enough to hear Lisa’s voice, no matter how much lit lagged. “Hello to you too.” 

“Hey.” He can tell she’s in her bedroom. The giveaway is the Twin Peaks poster on the lilac-painted wall behind her. That thing has got to be older than both Adrian and Malcolm combined, even in its pixelated state he can pinpoint all the tears and pinholes that the poster has accumulated like acne over the years. “Seriously though, you look terrible.”

“Thanks, Lis.” Lisa’s never been one for lame conversation, and a decade of friendship has made Waylon fluent in ‘Lisa’. Chances are that if she’s insulting you, it means she cares about you enough to think that you deserve her no-bullshit policy. ‘You look terrible’ tends to translate into ‘You don’t seem like yourself and I’m worried about you. But you do also look terrible.’

“Have you eaten anything today, yet?”

“Yep. The canteen was serving caviar and chocolate soufflés, but I was too full from my morning breakfast of champagne with strawberries and cream to a have full serving at lunch.”

“Nice. And what are you making now, sire?”

“Pepperoni pizza flavoured Hot Pockets, à la mode.”

“Tight. What’s the ‘ à la mode’ part?”

“They’re not expired this time.”

“Christ. You’re living like Bigfoot out there. You’ve got the hair down and everything.”

“You don’t like my new look?”

“You look feral. The raccoons that raid my garbage bags are eating better than you.”

“First of all, I left my razor and home, and second of all—” he threw his food in the microwave and leaned against the counter, inching the laptop closer to himself to try and get a better look at the screen as the quality fizzled out and refocused every few seconds—”I can’t really find it in me to take any advice about self-care from you seriously.”

“I’m a fucking nurse, Waylon. You’re gonna question my medical advice?”

“I’m sorry, what was your advice again?”

“Cut your hair, shave that scruff off your face and wear something that doesn’t look like you slept in it.”

“Thanks, doc.”

The microwave chirped and he pushed his food onto a plate, sitting on top of the counter. The kitchen was the only part of the house that had more than one light source, the rest was bathed in whatever streaks of light made it past the blinds and from the cheap bulbs screwed into the ceiling. The kitchen lighting was far from homely, however. If anything, it made the place seem like an operating room, clinical and stiff. Waylon focused on Lisa, trying to imagine that he was sat on her bed, like how they did in college, sharing bowls of icecream. Salted caramel for him, honeycomb for her.

Whilst Waylon ate, he could feel Lisa watching him. “I can hear you worrying, y’know,” he said between mouthfuls. “Your head’s gonna explode if you spend any more time stressing over nothing.”

“Sorry for caring, asshole.”

“Apology accepted.”

“Okay, but you can’t deny it either. You’re miserable there.” It was a statement, not a theory, and she, as usual, was horribly accurate. A thousand or so miles and a crappy wifi signal isn’t enough to hide the truth from Lisa.

“Yeah, well, another month and I’ll be back home and be miserable there instead,” he grinned as he chewed. Talking to Lisa was one of his most treasured comforts, despite it sometimes feeling more like a test of his acting skills. He just didn’t want her to fret over him. Her heart and eye for pain was what made her a good nurse, but he had always insisted that she’d be better off as a detective. 

More silence. It was only until he came to Mount Massive that Waylon realised how much he despised it. His home in Vacaville has never been what he considered ‘bustling’, but it was definitely circled by movement. Passing cars, police vehicles, teenagers racing down the street at midnight in their parent’s SUVs, kids walking to school, chasing one another and laughing at the smallest of things, the occasional drunk shouting out some slurred cover of an ABBA song as their friends hauled them home. Though it wasn’t extreme, there was still _action_ back at home. In Leadville, with no one but the mountains for company, Waylon felt like he had been locked in the largest, most beautiful cell imaginable, cut off from everything and everyone. 

“What time do you start your shift tonight?” he asked, even though he didn’t need to. It’s Monday, which means Lisa has to be at the hospital for— 

“Actually, I’m not working tonight . . .” she smiled. 

“Oh? And why not?” he asked, his voice rising. Lisa wasn’t playing the same game as him, though, instead, she smiled down at her lap, no doubt fiddling with the multitude of rings she wore on her hands. A telltale sign that made Waylon cease to eat in realisation. “Oh, _shut up_ ,” he marvelled, “seriously? Lisa—”

“Leave me alone!” she laughed.

“You have _got_ to be kidding me! Again? Do you ever learn?”

“That last time didn’t count and you know it. And we’re both free tonight, so we figured it was worth giving it a second try. Please pretend to look happy.”

“And how come both you and Mark happen to be free tonight? Huh?” Waylon pressed. “Or did you seriously do what I think you did, which is find out that Mark has a free night, so you asked someone to cover your shift just so you could go out?” A second of watching her bite the inside of her cheek was all the confirmation he needed. “Lisa . . .” 

“Oh, hush. I need this, Way. And Mark’s sweet, despite whatever you think about him.”

“I just thought that the last time you guys hung out would have been proof enough about what a waste of time the guy is.”

The truth was, Waylon genuinely liked Mark. He had only met him a couple times, but in those few short encounters, Mark came across to Waylon as the exact kind of guy that’d be perfect for Lisa. The only problem was, however, was that Mark seemed completely oblivious to any of Lisa’s advances. The last ‘date’ that they went on was, in reality, a party where Lisa, try as she might, couldn’t even get Mark to _look_ her way, and when he did it was too loud for them to hear one another, and when they were finally alone, Mark somehow managed to spill win all over Lisa. Waylon remembers all of it because he was babysitting Adrian and Malcolm at the time and was, thankfully, there to catch her before she collapsed (from either sheer embarrassment or exhaustion, he couldn’t possibly tell) in her hallway. The rest of the night was spent trying to stop Lisa from calling Mark and listening to her pour her guts out over way too many bottles of beer. Waylon had concluded that night, right before he passed on her couch, thinking that at least now, through all the heartbreak, that she had at least learnt her lesson. Apparently not. 

“How that guy got a job that involves any level of understanding above third grade math, I will never know.”

“Bitter, aren’t we? I see we’re playing the cranky ex card tonight.”

“Psht, don’t flatter yourself. We were a bigger mess than you and Mark will ever be.”

“I can’t fight you on that.”

They had only dated for a couple months in college, back when they were both freshmen desperate for something to ground them. Neither of them had much in terms of friends besides each other at the time, so their loneliness, mixed in with a fair amount of sexual frustration, lead them to the conclusion that they should date. It fell apart soon enough, though not for a lack of trying, but they eventually realised that they’re better off as friends, or to at least wait until they weren’t awkward pieces of shit that couldn’t so much as order drinks at a bar with a fake ID without feeling nervous, let alone jump headfirst into a relationship.

“My sister will be here any minute. Be a good friend and tell me everything’s gonna be alright, please?”

“You’ll be fine. It’s Mark that I’m worried about. What line did you feed him for him to even agree to tonight?”

“I asked him if he knew any good bars, which lead into a whole spiel about local breweries—”

“Sexy. I don’t know how you stopped yourself from begging him to take you right then and there.”

“—and then I managed to get him to invite me out - show me what I’ve been missing.”

“Made it sound like his idea.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Smart. That way you can blame him when it all goes wrong too.”

“Waylon.”

“Sorry.” He looked down at his plate, frowning at the lack of food on it. Not even a crumb or smudge of sauce. He considered making more, but then he imagined Lisa rolling her eyes and thought better on it. Pushing himself off the counter, he placed the plate into the dishwasher, letting it sit with the pile of other plates and knives, forks, spoons, cups, pots, pans, all of which had yet to be washed. Waylon grimaced at the sight before making his way back to the laptop.

“Well, before you go, can I at least say hi to the boys?”

“Ah, sorry. I put them to bed early so they wouldn’t cling to my legs as I left.”

“Oh, right. Smart.”

Lisa shifted on the bed, her earrings shaking as she cleared her throat. “Waylon . . . I know it sucks up there ‘n’ all but, you’re okay, yeah? Overall, I mean.”

“What? I’m fine.” He bit his lip for a second. “Just can’t wait to get home is all. I miss the boys.”

Lisa smiled. “They miss you too. I get asked the same questions every day: ‘When’s Uncle Way gonna come home?’ ‘Where’s Colorado?’ ‘What _kind_ of hospital?’ ‘Is he a nurse like you mommy? I thought he only worked with computers.’”

“I’ll have to get them something from round here. You think they’ll like snow globes?”

“They like anything they can throw at each other.”

“Shirts, then. No one’s ever gotten a broken bone from a Denver Broncos jersey.”

“Perfect.”

There was a faint knocking sound. Lisa looked up, then looked back down to Waylon. “That’s Jen. I gotta go.”

“Woah, woah, woah, wait - what are you gonna wear for your lil’ manipulation date?”

“Yeah right, like I’m gonna tell you. Jen’s gonna help me pick something out before I go.”

“Can I stay and help?”

“Waylon - you’ve worn the same clothes since college.”

“Because they still fit me! If it ain’t broke and all that.”

Lisa laughed, getting up from the bed, now towering above Waylon as she straightened her shirt and shorts. “Right, now I deadass have to go, before Jen breaks down my door. Wish me luck, asshole.”

“Good luck. And I know you don’t trust my fashion sense but might I suggest that red dress I got you for your last birthday? Also, maybe wear a bib tonight, too. Mark, alcohol and your clothes have a history of not working together.”

“Fuck you, Waylon,” Lisa grinned, blowing him a kiss. “Bye!”

“Bye,” he said, but it was too late. Lisa ended the call, cutting him off leaving him alone once more.

💮💮💮

The rest of the night was more or less the same as the routine he’s been following since he first got here. There was no TV to fall asleep in front of, no one man ping pong table to waste his time with, just the option to wonder the same four rooms whilst he brushed his teeth. 

As he toured his temporary home, lazily dragging his toothbrush against his teeth, his hair still damp from the shower he just took and dripping onto the worn shirt that served as the top half of his pyjama set, Waylon realised how little he had to prove he was here, in this moment. Of course, Lisa knew he was here, but now, as he looked at the pairs of shoes and his coat and jacket he had left in the hallway, and the disturbed pillows thrown across the couch in the living room, and the sheets that lie askew on the dented mattress in the bedroom, it dawned on Waylon how easily it seems he could vanish here. Maybe that’s what Murkoff wants, maybe that’s why they banned outside interaction and ripped the TV from the wall and gifted him a fancy rental car with a poorly tuned radio, and why he had to sign a contract that prohibits him from talking about anything he did or was witness to at the hospital. They want him to think that the rest of the world has disappeared, that he’s been forgotten. A true ghost, wiped clean from the sleeping face of the earth so that he’s free to work for them and be so, so grateful when they give him his life back after three months. 

But there’s always the option to leave. He’s never lost that. That’s what separates him from the patients trapped like caged foxes in that second hell of a hospital. Murkoff has yet to take that from him. One more month. Only forty-three more days to go, just till the end of September. Please, he thought, in the maddening quiet of the late evening. Let me last just one more month. 

💮💮💮

Bedtime now, and with only ten minutes to go until midnight. The sky is blue, and the moon is wonderfully full, it’s gentle glow peeking in through his bedroom window that doesn’t completely close. If he lets himself relax, then he can imagine that he’s spread over some lost seabed, watching flimsily conjured fish float above him. How temporary does the night make everything seem, like a pond where no discarded stone has ever breached its waters. He has never known peace like this; if he can even call it peace, that is. It _should_ be peaceful, everything around him was so unassuming, so minute. If he held his breath, then there’d be no other noise to indicate he was even in the room. Peace seemed like the only recognisable presence right now, far more palpable than Waylon was in this moment. So why does everything feel so close to rippling apart? The bedsheets wrapped loosely around him are not calming waves but chilling droves, the ceiling above him is not a gentle ocean but a trembling shore, and the moonlight is not an embrace but an eye, wide and watching. An intrusion. A disturbance. This sensation is not new; he’s felt it almost every night since he set foot through the door. Sleep has never come easy to him, even as a child. But his insomnia feels different tonight, tonight he feels haunted. Haunted by the image of fingertips pressed against bulletproof glass and pleading eyes so blue they looked like riverbanks threatening to burst. 

That can't be it, not completely, surely. There has to be more to this dream. Think, Waylon. You have all night, there have to be more details. 

So he wasted the rest of his night trying to recreate Gluskin in his mind. And, soon enough, he had managed to build a new, not better but certainly more rounded, image: 

Gluskin’s hands were calloused, rough and somewhat dry from years of use. No scarring though, unlike the marks the began to mar his wrists, no doubt working their way across his body.. Further along, to his arms, both of which were concealed under the grey cloth of his jumpsuit. A strange colour to make the patients wear, he thought. He’s seen several patients in orange, or perhaps it was more of a brown, but never grey. He tried to remember the number printed on Gluskin’s chest, his second identity that the hospital awarded him and stitched onto his suit, the black numbers resting on top of his pale skin. He truly looked ghostly in the light of the monitoring cell, translucent even. Nothing like Waylon’s own complexion; a product of his residence in sunny Cali. Lisa once joked about him being the world’s most tan software engineer. He wonders if Gluskin could be tan as well, or if he has always been naturally light. Vampiric, would be a good word to describe him. Handsome, too. His eyes are, evidently, hard to forget. Perhaps its the result of some genetic malfunction caused by all of Murkoff’s experiments on the man. But it would be insulting to only focus on such a small aspect of Gluskin’s appearance, if Waylon was to truly recover every detail from his psyche and perfectly capture Gluskin. Not that he was doing this for his own pleasure, absolutely not, this is merely an exercise to exhaust his brain into a slumber. A brain teaser and nothing more. 

Anyways, back to Gluskin: There was little point in denying that Waylon, if the two of them were to meet in kinder circumstances, would find Gluskin undeniably attractive. His jumpsuit did his frame little justice, but through the cheap fabric, it was obvious that Gluskin, through all that he has suffered downstairs, was extremely fit. Maybe they had pumped him full of steroids; a common practice he had overheard from two doctors in the hospital’s halls one day, so that the patients can last longer as the tests became increasingly more taxing on their bodies. Good health was a sought after component in Mount Massive, though not for any of the reasons any other hospital would be striving for it. The sounder the body, the easier it was to load horror after horror onto it. Faster recoveries physically, but not mentally. Waylon doubted that there was a single able mind in all those towering bodies in Mount Massive, for both patients and workers alike. 

Regardless, it was clear that Gluskin was more than capable of snapping Waylon’s neck like a brittle flower stem, if it wasn’t for the inches of glass that had stood between them. Would he even break a sweat, if he were to do so? All of him screamed of an immense sense of power; A wide chest which tapered down into a strong waist and narrow hips, with broad shoulders and a thick neck to support his sharp jaw and chiselled face. The man was composed of cutting angles and impressive muscles; the kind of physique you’d find in classical paintings of heroes and gods, hanging in galleries Lisa would always drag him to, to ‘benefit’ him, make him more ‘cultured.’ There isn’t much culture behind it, he thought, as he once stood before and scanned the hundreds of paintings composed of the same bodies and faces, just arranged in different poses. Throughout time, people have been unable to deny the loveliness of men and women with dark hair, hard stares and fantastical bodies. Gluskin was no different, if he was any paler then he’d be no different than the marble statues he reminds Waylon of. His only modern tell is his hair, shaved severely on both sides of his skull, leaving a short crop of black locks on top, a few strands daring to fall over his face as he stared at Waylon. Waylon had only seen patients with their heads completely shaved, it was as much as part of their hospital uniform as the jumpsuits they were given to wear. What made Gluskin special? There were faint marks on the shaved parts of his head, most likely from a razor being dragged haphazardly over the skin. Would they let him do it himself? Is it even possible that he can earn that privilege? Or was he so favoured that they had someone else do it? Do they sedate him? Threaten him? Strap him down? Was he soothed? Was he cared for? Was he left back in the dark afterwards, forgotten, his own eyes, in all their brilliance, still not bright enough to pierce the eternal night of his cell, where morning and night were relative concepts?

Waylon gasped, a hand instinctively gripping the part of his shirt where his heart hammered beneath. Nausea washed over him. He was scaring himself. This game wasn’t fun anymore, it had left him half-choking in the night, grieving for the loss of a man that had probably done unspeakable things to earn himself a place in such darkness. 

Seconds, or minutes, or hours passed but he eventually convinced himself to lay back down, letting the leftover fatigue of his panic attack be the anchor that weighed him down into rest. He let himself move on from thoughts of Gluskin, but never truly abandoning them, still plagued by an aching desire to go back to the hospital, back into monitoring room 5 and place his hand on the glass and wait patiently for Gluskin to find him.


	3. Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heya - here's the next chapter in the present timeline, following the shutdown of the engine. Enjoy!

  
  


**1 MINUTE SINCE BREAKOUT**

He woke up almost immediately, drowning in nothingness. There were people surrounding him, probably. It’s hard to tell. He couldn’t see them, but not really, they all flashed past him like mirages. All he had to know that they were real were the sounds of their voices and their shadows, which were cast over him like blankets. A welcome comfort, since the rest of him seemed to be aching in places he didn't know existed. But still, there was no proof that they weren’t all just figments of his imagination. Their voices were hard to distinguish from the groaning of the engine and the ringing in his ears, their shadows merely his vision grasping for purchase in the black nothing he lied in. Perhaps they were monsters. If so, then he ought to stay quiet, in case they’re hungry.

His eyes conjured up false shapes in front of him, a grey lapse of terrified faces and blinking dials from the nearby machinery. He tried to push himself upright, but his arms were unable to take his weight, and the side of his head clanged against the floor as he dropped back down. Up and down became quickly blurred concepts, the only indication that he wasn’t standing straight is the fact that he felt the right side of his body pressed against the grated floor.

So, as he waited for his mind and body to come back together, he focused on trying to stop the room from spinning. His head felt like it was in water, the inviting idea to fall unconscious lapping at his brain.  _ No. You sleep, you die _ . 

Ah, good point. Best to keep his eyes open, then. He flexed his hand, the one that wasn’t smooshed between the floor and his side, and was beyond elated to discover that he could at least move his fingers with no issue. So he spent his time twitching his fingers in time to his heartbeat, varying between moving one digit at a time, to scrunching his hand into a fist so tight that he thought he knuckles would burst through his skin, like bullets through tissue paper. It hurt, but that's okay. Pain meant he was still alive.

Then there was a voice, a new voice that was far clearer than the rest of the rumbling voices and screams; a siren. It blared its sharp alarm, screeching about some ‘total failure in power’ and the need for ‘immediate evacuation’. The voices around him seemed to think this was good advice, and it wasn’t long before he heard a stampede of footsteps heading for whatever green exit sign still glowed above a door. As the voices grew fainter with the footsteps, Waylon allowed himself to breathe. The monsters were gone. Now  _ go _ . 

Wedging both hands underneath his side, he groaned as he pushed himself onto his stomach, now positioned as if he was about to do a push-up, with his face squeezed against the gridded floor. He burped, moaning at the taste of stomach acid inching its way up from his stomach and into his throat. He was concussed. Just his luck. He swallowed the vomit back down, grimacing at the taste and sensation of it splashing back down into his gut. He’ll puke later, when he’s on both feet and not at risk of choking on whatever comes up. 

In the swirling mass of his mind, he heard a familiar voice. A memory, whispering sweetly not far from where he lied.  _ Get your ass up, Way. Come on, move. Move, asshole!  _ Then there came the watery memory of a pillow landing faintly on his back, and a woman laughing above him.

“Lisa,” he slurred, remembering. “Lisa,” he repeated, his voice distorting the name, ‘Lee-sahhh’, but the meaning wasn’t lost on him. 

It was coming back to him. Granted, it all came back in faded dribs and drabs, but it eventually all locked into place, making him feel sick for a whole different reason.

Mount Massive, the Morphogenic Engine, Lisa, Blaire, Eddie. Oh fuck,  _ Eddie _ . 

Adrenaline flooded him, helping him in his abysmal efforts to push himself up. And in one painful motion, he succeeded in shoving himself upright, only for the back of his head to smack against something smooth and hard above him. And back down he went, careening into the floor, with his arms flying to cover the back of his skull. “Motherfucker . . .” he moaned. Back to square one.

“What was that?”

His blood ran cold, a hand flying off his head to clasp around his mouth. Apparently not all the monsters have left; one remained. In a direction he hoped leads somewhere that keeps him more hidden, he writhed carefully across the floor until his back hit a cool corner, and he promptly buried himself in it, continuing to worm his way into the corner even when there was nowhere else for him to go. From his new position, he gathered some sense of where he was: underneath a desk. It must have been his first instinct after the lights went out, after he . . . he can’t remember the exact details right now, but he knew it was something big. It was obviously relevant enough to have someone stay back to look for him.

“What was what?” Two monsters? This voice sounded different from the other, or was his mind playing tricks on him?

“I thought I heard something.” He bit down on his hand, trying to muffle his breathing. He heard feet kick through rubble and glass, getting closer to him.

“Probably just a patient,” the second voice said. “Engine’s still active, running on a reserved supply. God help them. Let’s go.”

“No. He’s here.”

“Who?”

“Who do you think? Fucking Park - that’s who. Help me find him.”

“He probably left with the others. And we should too, before the inmates figure out how to get in here and rip us apart.”

“No. He’s smarter than that. He wouldn’t go where I can find him easier. He never left the room, the clever bastard.” 

Just then, Waylon’s vision got brighter, making him bite his hand again as he subdued a wince from the sudden influx of light. His pursuer had lifted something that had been blocking his view; a chair. The chair he must have been sitting in before it all went dark. He pressed himself further into his corner. 

“Wherever he is, he’s not getting out of here alive. Asshole just signed his own death warrant," the second voice reasoned.

“ _ I _ want to be the one that finds him. I’m gonna wring every last drop of blood from that coward's body.”

There was more shuffling from beyond the desk, and he stayed as still as he possibly could throughout it, listening so closely that his ears were beginning to sting from the strain. 

The second voice, now sounding more distant than the first (probably seeing sense and trying to inch their way to the exit), sighed. “Look at the state of this place - does he know what he’s done? Four years gone down the drain, billions of dollars wasted.”

“We’ll do it again,” the first voice hissed, lifting something particularly heavy and throwing it against a wall. “And I’m gonna see to it personally that Park is our first participant.”

Suddenly, a disturbing rumble shook the whole area, causing something to fall from the ceiling and land on the end of the desk Waylon was under. It crushed the table immediately, thankfully sparing most of Waylon, who lied at the other end of the space, but still caused a large chunk of the desk to break and come crashing down onto his ribs. He gasped, but the sound was swallowed by the roar of the engine. Once it dimmed, the second voice spoke cautiously: 

“Mr Blaire, I think it's best we leave now, whilst the doors are still open.”

Waylon’s eyes widened. The first voice, Blaire, grunted from the strain of prying some rubble away from a possible hiding spot, and yelled when he failed to find Waylon under it. There was silence, then, the second voice, spoke again, but this time their voice was far less attentive. 

“Look, man. You can look for this guy as much as you want, but I wanna get out of here—”

“You will do no such thing. I am still your fucking employer, Stevens, and you will stay with me—”

“You’re not my employer anymore - I quit. This freakshow has gone on long enough.”

Blaire scoffed, and there was another small crash as he swiped something heavy off a table. “Is that right? So sorry to hear that you feel that way, Stevens.”

“Yes, well, no point in lying. Lord knows we've all been doing that for quite some time. Now, I’m leaving. If you wanna come with me or stay here, that’s up to you, but I’m not waiting for you any longer.”

With a scream, Blaire sent a monitor careening into the floor, a piece from the screen sliding towards Waylon as it broke apart. There was a beat of silence, and then Blaire sighed.

“Okay, Stevens. You win. Let’s go. Just make sure you shut off the elevator once we surface. If Park is still here, I want him to stay here.”

“Good idea, sir.”

Waylon watched as Blaire’s scuffed dress shoes walked past him, his eyes watching them until they left his field of vision. Before they went, however, he heard Blaire turn and say to the room, “Good luck, Park.”

He listened intently as they finally left, only daring to release his mouth when he heard the doors click shut, the click followed by a mechanical whirring; sealing his tomb absolutely. 

💮💮💮

Even with Blaire and Stevens gone, he was afraid to move instantly. Worries of them returning, or fears of him rising too quickly and causing more damage to himself kept him on the floor. At least it gave his vision ample time to recover, his eyes narrowing as he picked through the small bits of fallout from the shutdown that lied on the floor with him, just within arms reach. As he spent time sharpening his senses, adapting to the darkness and listening to the disorientating noise of the sirens still screeching every now and then, he tried to collect his memories, as well as his understanding of his present.

He knew he was still on the balcony overlooking the engine (hopefully the glass hadn’t smashed from the engine’s roaring just yet), hiding underneath the desk he was sitting at moments ago. He recalls saying ‘No’ and pushing a button on a keyboard, and then all hell broke loose. But there were fragments following the ‘No’ that were still hazy to him. Someone (Blaire?) cursing him, the feeling of hands scrambling to grab him, the collision of his body against the floor as he hid himself in the darkness under the desk. Was all of that really caused by that simple line of code he had scripted? Surely not, he had been so sure to be careful; it wasn’t supposed happen like this. He had only intended for it to confuse the engine, not cause a whole rupture. But, then again, what good would have a small disruption actually been? It would have stopped Eddie’s suffering for a short while, before they forced him to fix it, or, if he refused, for them to shoot him and find someone else to correct it. At least now he was alone, and, God willing, able to free Eddie from his pod; provided the engine hadn’t fried his brains yet. 

The thought of Eddie still hanging in his pod twisted Waylon’s stomach. Though it was hardly ideal, this deviation from his plan has given him a real opportunity to get both of them out of here  _ alive _ . If they played their cards right, they stood a real chance of living something akin to a life after their escape. It was reason enough to slide out from his place under the table, trying his best to not cut himself on any glass or rubble as he crawled on his stomach. 

Outside from underneath the dark safety of the table, it was worse than Waylon could have possibly imagined. Illuminated by the glowing screens of withered machines, Waylon gawked up at the sparking overhead lights and heavy metal ceiling beams, the only thing stopping them from crashing into the floor and onto him were a few stray wires wrapped around their frames. Was all of this really caused by him? Was he really responsible for such destruction, just from a simple script he crafted less than ten hours ago?

As if answering him, the engine emitted another shattering rumble, almost driving Waylon back under the desk as several different machines and items were toppled over from the force of the engine’s cry. A coffee mug dropped onto the floor and broke, followed by another computer monitor. A tall server fell onto its side, ripping itself out from the wall and sending sparks flying as it went. As Waylon cautiously dragged himself out from under the desk, it became apparent to him that whatever caused all this, it was beyond recovery now. All that was left for him to was to find Eddie and get them both out of here in one piece. 

Gripping the edge of the desk, he hauled himself to his feet, groaning at the pain in his locked knees. He stretched, grunting from the pressure after lying in a single position for so long. As he stretched his arms, he glanced at his watch, squinting down at the dial in the dark and relieved to see that it still works. He didn’t check the time before the engine collapse, but if he was to estimate, then he’s been here for around thirty minutes. If he was quick, he might figure out a way to get to Eddie.

💮💮💮

Though he knew it was most likely futile, his first idea was to check the double doors Blaire and Stevens and everyone else must have left through. But as he rattled the handles and tried password after password on the security pad, it became clear that they weren’t opening anytime soon. There were no windows to smash, and he doubted that, if he even had the upper body strength with him at the moment, using one of the servers as a battering ram would only serve to exhaust him and maybe dislocate limb in the process. One of the spokes on the Murkoff wheel was being a powerhouse supplier of biometric security, security that  _ he _ helped consult on; trying to get out through anything digitally automated was a total no-go. 

But he didn’t need to find an exit, he needed to find Eddie, who lied on the other side of the glass. Perhaps if he was able to get down there, they could figure out a viable exit strategy through the labs and cells on the other side of the engine, provided those also haven’t been locked down. It was as good a plan as any, and he wasn’t exactly spoilt for choice right now. 

Rushing over to the door by the line of desks, Waylon peered through the glass but was unable to see Eddie from his point. He gripped the push bar that ran along the door’s middle and tried to force the metal down, only to discover that it was jammed. He fished out his security pass from his back pocket, but swiping that wildly in front of the sensor beside the door proved as effective as trying to open it manually. He swore, continuing to wrestle with the bar out of frustration. But it wouldn’t budge, it seemed everything down here was either manually locked or whose mechanics were encrypted beyond recognition.

He rested his head against the glass, absorbing whatever small amount of relief he could extract from the cool material.  _ Think, damn you _ . 

The glass of the door was made of the same impenetrable plexiglass as the rest of the windows. If Eddie couldn't have broken through it, even with all of his fear/drug-induced might, then there was little hope of Waylon managing it. On the other side of the glass, the engine fizzed and rattled restlessly. He gritted his teeth. Every moment spent on the wrong side of this door was another moment Eddie spent in the engine.  _ THINK _ .

All of a sudden, the engine began to rumble once more, except this time, it was louder, more primal; as if it was about to take off. It whistled like a steaming kettle, loud enough to make Waylon feel faint from the pitch. He pressed his hands against his ears, the force of the sound making him lean nearly all of his weight against the door for support. The sound was making him feel dizzy, the pitch only seeming to climb up and up to an unbearable height. 

Then, like a balloon bursting, the pitch peaked, followed by a final roar from the engine that blew Waylon to the floor. Every dial and screen still in operation turned to pieces, sending glass flying through the air like furious snowflakes. He kept low to the floor, the roar of the engine powerful enough to be felt in his bones. He might have screamed, the only indication being that his mouth was open, but the noise of the engine overwhelming all other sounds. Above him, there was an almighty crash, and he felt glass rain down on him, landing in his hair and grazing past his face. Peeking through his arms, he saw something struggle through the newly made hole in the window over the terminals. It wormed its way through the jagged rim of the plexiglass, clawing its way into the observation deck with its (mostly) human arms, except its limbs looked like they were somehow made of smoke, rather than mortal muscle. All of it looked like it wasn’t made of anything from this earth. It seemed translucent in places, black mist rolling off and circling its ‘body’ like an aura, but as it fell from the window and tumbled on top of the desks below, it was clearly corporeal enough to do some damage. It lacked legs, its lower half dissolving into more smoke, its top half alarmingly similar to that of a strong man’s, and though it had a head, it was devoid of a face, like a burnt portrait. It looked unfinished, foetal in places and godly in others.

Waylon watched it silently, rooted to the floor in horror as he observed its struggle from the desk into the rest of the room. Though it was an intimidating sight, there was something in its actions that suggested it didn’t yet know its power. It was tentative, almost nervous; like a newborn foal trying out its legs for the first time. Childlike, perhaps even scared. 

It floated around the room, its body rippling like water as it swam through the air. It sank and rose in the atmosphere, twisting and turning, zigging and zagging. It was learning how to steer, Waylon thought. 

Daring to get a better look, Waylon lifted his head up from the floor, angling his body to observe its flight. It was oddly serene, watching this spectre spin like a sheet in the wind. It reminded him of a lost kite, like the one he once flew with Adrian and Malcolm last Summer. He pushed himself onto his back. Was this a product of the engine? Was this what Murkoff has been striving for, for all these years? This was the reason for so much death and destruction? This was what Eddie, and all the others, had suffered for?

But the peace was ripped apart from another blast from the engine, and the mysterious creature let out a harrowing screech that sounded like a thousand sharp whispers. It barrelled across the room, wailing as it went. Waylon must have moved too quickly, as it suddenly looked down to him, its blank face somehow staring into his very core. It dived down to him, weeping like a banshee. Waylon was frozen, unable to even turn away, but it didn’t collide with him, instead it veered off at the last possible minute and knocked into another server. Now more aware, Waylon just about managed to roll away before the heavy tower of wires fell on top of him. He looked up, and saw the creature knocking from wall to wall, taking chunks of equipment with it. It was scared, but Waylon didn’t know how to calm it, let alone that if he called out to it, whether or not it would return to silence him for good. It had all the unbridled force of storm but little control to contain it.

Eventually, it shot through the hole in the window it came in through, now making it ten times bigger with the sheer amount of strength that was powering its manic exit. It left with one more scream, before evaporating into the darkness, leaving Waylon (hopefully) alone as it journeyed through the rest of the asylum.

Unfolding himself slowly, Waylon counted to a hundred before getting back to his feet, not wanting to disturb the ‘ghost’ in case it was lurking in some vent, waiting for him to make a sudden enough movement to locate him and strike. He listened, feeling his heartbeat slow to a temporary thumping in his ears as he picked through the rest of the sounds in the room. But all he could hear were the vents pushing out air and the lowly grumbling of the engine. 

He approached the line of desks that leant against the large window overseeing the engine. Two or so feet above the desks lied the hole made by the ghost, just wide enough for Waylon to fit through without severely severing a limb on the jagged glass. Dusting himself off, he found a stray chair and brought it onto the desk with him, the broken table creaking from the extra weight. Wedging the chair against the glass, he then took off his flannel shirt, bunching it up in his hands before clambering on top of the chair and gripping the least pointed edges of the gap. The thickness of the plexiglass meant that he could position himself until he was somewhat sitting on the edge of the hole, swinging his feet through and keeping one hand beside his thigh to steady himself whilst keeping the other hand on the upper edge of the hole for extra purchase. 

Below him, there lied little to help cushion his descent, the dimly illuminated concrete floor promising only a broken spine if he just pushed himself out. However, there did lie a short ledge, sticking out from underneath the observation deck; an incredibly narrow walkway with no barrier to stop him from just falling off it if (when) he flubbed his landing. _Beggars can't be choosers_ , he heard Lisa say. It was one of her most favourite phrases, usually always applied when she gave the kids fruit for dessert. And she was right, and he didn't fancy spending another second more considering his descent before the ghost returned and finished what it started. 

Pushing himself as far from the edge of the glass as he could, pointing his legs down to where he hoped he’d land, he didn’t give himself time to second-guess before he dropped from the hole and dropped down onto the small landing. 

His reaction time left much to be desired, nearly slipping out entirely from the walkway if it wasn’t for one of his hands automatically gripping onto the gridded floor, his knuckles bleached white from the strength he used to stay put.

From his new position, he was given a more level view of the engine floor. There were three other pods, but his heart only skipped when he saw the glowing outline of Eddie’s pod. 

“Eddie,” he breathed, leaning forward to get a better look of the patient. Bad idea. The walkway, already unstable following the engine’s eruption, finally gave way to the unwelcome weight of Waylon’s descent, the metal groaning before its supports snapped and he dropped with the framework to the hard floor below. 

He landed unceremoniously on his ass, the pain in his coccyx arriving with a stabbing pain that ran along his spine and poured out his mouth in the form of a very winded sounding “Fuck!”

Whilst his body was still in relative shock, he wasted little time. Stumbling to his feet, he hobbled as fast as he could to Eddie’s body, bracing his hands against the slightly fogged material of the pod.

Even as his body began to scream from the delayed pain of his fall, it paled in comparison to the ache in his heart at the sight of Eddie. Up close, it was even worse than the surveillance footage had shown. Spending so much time in the engine (especially after it had been sent into overdrive following Waylon's shutdown) had rendered the right half of Eddie’s face almost unrecognisable, his skin peeling into grotesque rose-shaped blisters under his eyes and curved over his brow. A deep gash had formed over his right eye, blood already pooling into his eyes, which were rolled back in his skull. Waylon banged his palms against the pod, hoping to at least stir Eddie enough to prove that he was still alive in there. He scoured Eddie’s face for a sign of life, a twitching eyelid, a quivering eyebrow, a fluttering eyelash; anything. There was little hope to be found as Eddie remained horrifyingly still.

Bracing his head against the glass, Waylon tried to calm himself. Stress would only kill him faster, he needed to remain calm, at least until he got Eddie out of this thing, even if all he was doing was pulling a corpse out of its shell.

No, don’t think of such things, not now, not ever.  _ Just move. Onwards _ . 

The latch to the pod was locked in five places, and the keys were most likely above ground and driving away in some tech's pocket at this very moment. The door bled smoothly into the rest of the pod, making the plan of prying it apart with some blunt bit of framework not as sure-fire as his third plan of just pummeling the ever-loving shit out of it until it broke apart.

He went back over to the fallen frame he came crashing down with, wincing as he went. Pulling his flannel back over his body, he kicked through the wreckage for something suitable for breaking the pod open. He settled for a heavy pole, wrestling it free from underneath the rest of the metalwork and striding back to Eddie. Rounding the back of the pod (not wanting to risk damaging Eddie anymore than he already was), he hovered the pole over the spot he intended to bring it down upon two, three, four times, before raising the pole past his head and swung it into the pod. 

It cracked, but failed to break as immediately as Waylon had been hoping for. After two more tries, he had yet to make a sizable enough gap to even be able to reach in and touch Eddie. He grunted in frustration, already beginning to sweat as he brought the pole down another two times. A chunk flew out from the pod, and Waylon grimaced as he began to assault the slightly thinner spot.

“I did not—”  _ crack _ —“potentially—”  _ crack _ —“bring down—”  _ crack _ —“a multimillion-dollar—”  _ crack _ —“fucking dreamcatcher—”  _ crack _ —“just for you to—”  _ crack _ —“die inside of it!”  _ CRACK! _

A stream of air and translucent liquid gushed out between the small crevices of the pod, before the back of it collapsed in on itself and was washed away with its contents. Waylon didn’t even step aside, not caring for the feeling of cold liquid rushing past his ankles, soaking his thin shoes and the cuffs of his jeans. He climbed through the still intact half of the pod, met with a freezing gust of air from the vents still functioning inside. He reached a hand out to glide across Eddie’s shoulder, the muscle tense under his light touch. He slid his hand up to cup Eddie’s jaw from behind, pressing two fingers at the junction between his jaw and neck and breathed a sigh of relief at the pulse that thrummed underneath. “Thank God,” he sighed, hanging his head. He kept his fingers against Eddie’s pulse for a little while longer as he shuffled further inside the cramped pod, wanting to assess the damage strewn across Eddie's body more efficiently. 

It wasn’t a pretty sight. Eddie’s back alone was adorned with several tubes, all varying in length and width, but all appearing to be very painful. Some, judging from the bulges they made under Eddie’s skin, seemed to wind themselves around his muscles, others perhaps even deep enough to reach bone, the largest one resting in the small of Eddie’s back. Despite the grotesque display, none seemed to breach any skin that wasn’t already marred from past experiments, and there was little sign of blood. The scarred muscle hugged the tubing, and Waylon felt sick at the idea of just how deep they ran into Eddie’s body. But he needed to get him out of here, and there was no kind way he knew of extracting Eddie before the engine stirred for another earthquake and paralysed Eddie permanently. He just hoped that whatever was keeping Eddie asleep would remain in his system long enough to make this as painless as possible, for both of them. 

The pod wasn’t tall enough to stand upright in, making him resort to hunching over Eddie’s back, twisting the smallest, least painful looking tube he could find until it eventually gave way. He braced one hand against the back of Eddie’s neck, pushing against the firm muscle of the base of his neck as he tried to wrangle the tube free of his skin. It was a lengthy process, even just for a one-half-inch wide tube, making Waylon dread getting round to the bigger ones in Eddie’s shoulders and lower back even more. Wrenching them out might be a faster way, especially since Eddie was still unconscious, but he worried that any immediate pain would wake Eddie and make him struggle, worsening their situation more than it already is. So he settled for his gentle approach, wincing in sympathy as he finally pulled the first tube out, quickly throwing it aside as if it were the snapping head of a snake. One down, many more to go, and these were just the ones on Eddie’s back, he had yet to figure out how best to tackle the ones currently residing in the rest of the patient’s body.  _ Ex _ -patient. After this, it will become his mission to ensure that they never hurt Eddie like this ever again. He will live to see his scars heal.

He alternated between stroking Eddie’s neck and petting his hair, wishing that his reasons for being so close to Eddie weren’t so dire. Once they get out of here, they can work on their intimacy, start over fresh and touch one another because they want to, not because they're in pain. But that’s just more wishful thinking, isn’t it? They were going to die down here; they were already dead. Would they send people this far down, not for them, but for the engine? Would they rub their eyes in disbelief and choke on their screams at the sight of Waylon’s ghost, clawing at Eddie’s back for eternity, not knowing that it’s too late to save him?

He shivered.  _ No. Stop it, now come on. Pick another damn wire and get to work. _

Four smaller wires later, he only had the three large ones in Eddie’s shoulders and lower back left. He wiped his brow with the back of his free hand before wrapping his fingers around the pale green tube embedded in his right deltoid, commencing his tried-and-tested method of slowing twisting and coaxing it free of the scarred skin that kept it locked into place. His own back screamed in pain, having been precariously bent over Eddie for so long that his own body was beginning to cease from the strain, but he shook it off, trying his best to not despair at what he hoped was just his imagination conjuring up the sound of the engine picking up momentum for another roar.

After what felt like a century, the wire finally slipped free of Eddie’s shoulder. He wished he had bandages to help cover up the gaping matter left in Eddie’s shoulder; medical supplies, that’d be something they must look for afterwards. The labs must at least have a first aid kit. He slowly pressed his fingers against the scarred ring of muscle, his breath quickening as he circled it as gently as he could. In the static silence, he heard Eddie groan pitifully around the wires in his mouth. Waylon retracted his hand, not knowing whether to stay silent so as to not alarm Eddie, or speak and reassure him. 

“Eddie?” he whispered, testing the waters. It was hard to tell if Eddie could hear him, probably too lost in his own pain to bother thinking about anything lying outside of his haze. He groaned again, gurgling slightly as he choked from trying to breathe through the wires, his troubled breathing being what brought him out of his fog. 

Eddie’s eyes shot open, his body going into overdrive as he fought wildly against the wires and tubes wound through him, his distress muffled by the tubing in his mouth. Though Waylon couldn’t completely see his face, it was obvious that he was terrified, most likely not even knowing where he was, let alone why he was in such pain. 

Waylon, not leaving room to think, rushed forward, wrapping an arm under Eddie’s armpit and another around his neck. His teeth accidentally grazed Eddie’s ear, but he was too caught up in trying to stop Eddie’s thrashing to remember their personal boundaries.

“Eddie, Eddie! Shit. Calm down - it’s me. Eddie, it’s Waylon. You’re okay. It’s me, you’re still in the engine, but I’m gonna get you out, okay? You’re gonna get out, but I need you to calm down first. Fuck. Eddie,  _ please _ —”

Eddie screamed, the noise gargled by the tubing. Waylon’s hold on him wasn’t soothing him; it was making him feel even more restrained. Waylon flew back, but he kept a hand on his shoulder, running his hand over the muscle in large circles. “Eddie, please. You’re hurting yourself,” he pleaded, at a loss. He hadn’t planned for this. He had barely planned for killing the engine. They weren’t even an hour into this nightmare and Waylon already wished he had just let both of them die by Murkoff’s hands. 

Eddie continued to writhe, exhaustion subduing him a little bit, but not by much. Whatever mix of drugs they gave him must still be swirling in his system, and would continue to do so for some time before he’d be able to properly relax. Not knowing what else to do, Waylon began to mumble something that had sat in the corner of his mind for quite a while. A list, composed of a fantasy the two of them had come up with no long ago. A good memory that might help ground Eddie, and himself for that matter. 

“Roses and poppies,” he muttered. Then again, louder, “Roses and poppies - remember, Eddie? For your garden.”

He approached Eddie again, not holding him closely like before, but keeping a light pressure on his shoulder as he spoke into Eddie’s ear. “Apple trees . . . daffodils . . . What else? Geraniums, right?”

By some miracle, Eddie seemed to hear him, his thrashing diminishing slightly as he closed his eyes. Waylon smiled, though it was brief and hardly bright enough to be considered a joyous expression, yet it was a smile all the same. He kept going. “Lilies, snowdrops, tulips. What else was it that you said? Aster? Those are daisies, right? Aster and sunflowers.”

Eddie’s breathing slowed down a regular rhythm, humming quietly as Waylon spoke. 

“And a hawthorn tree, just like the one in the courtyard, yeah?” Waylon soothed. “And birdsong. And light. Tonnes of light. And when it gets dark, there’s more fireflies than stars, all in one garden. Remember?”

Eddie hummed, his body now lax and his breathing steady. Waylon moved away from him a final time, patting his shoulder before standing back to observe the rest of the tubes still decorating his body. There were still more than he could count, and with Eddie awake, he’d have to go an even more glacial pace than before. 

“Okay. Okay,” he breathed, readying both himself and Eddie. “This is going to hurt, sorry. But I have to get you out of here. Just think about all the flowers you’re gonna plant when we get out here, okay?” He wrapped a hand around the second tube in his other shoulder. “Roses . . . daisies . . . poppies . . .” he murmured as he tugged on the tube. Eddie flinched, and Waylon stopped, waiting until Eddie relaxed again to continue. 

💮💮💮

Waylon didn’t know how much time had passed; it was all one long aching blur. He spent ages working under the glow of the engine, spending one eternity at a time on each tube and wire that was threaded into Eddie’s body like a pincushion. Some came out easier than others, but all were difficult. They took breaks between the larger, most painful ones, with Waylon taking moments to repeat the small mantra he conjured at the beginning of all of this. 

_ Roses, daisies, poppies  _ —I’m sorry—  _ fireflies, daffodils  _ —I know it hurts, but try and stay still—  _ light, birdsong, snowdrops, apple trees  _ —Just one more on this side—  _ lilies and a hawthorn tree . . . _

Eventually, with the final tubes pulled out from Eddie's throat, the ex-patient was free from the engine’s web. 

Waylon cast aside the bundle of tubes he had just extracted from Eddie’s mouth, quick to catch Eddie’s head before it dropped to his chest. He was standing before Eddie now, bent over him and holding the sides of his face like before, a lifetime ago in the courtyard. He brushed his thumb across Eddie’s mouth, wiping away the bile that came up with the tubing. Eddie’s eyes fluttered open, now realising he could breathe freely through his mouth and gasped at the sight of Waylon before him, his vision clearly glossy but the emotion clear enough in his expression. 

With nothing to hold him, Eddie had been lying on the cracked floor of the pod ever since the last tube was taken out of his back, his torso resting on Waylon’s lap as Waylon worked on the wires in his chest. He lifted a weary arm up to Waylon, holding his arm in a grip so weak that Waylon hardly felt it, but it was beloved pressure that still made Waylon's heart falter. They gave each other weak smiles, basking in one another feebly. But then the engine rumbled, summoning another storm, and Waylon knew that this had to be cut short. He needed to find a place for Eddie to rest whilst he gathered supplies. 

“We need to go,” Waylon stated. “Can you walk?”

Eddie tried to respond, but whatever he was attempting to say came out slurred and nonsensical. Grunting, he tried to move out of Waylon’s hold and sit upright. He managed it for a short while, before slumping forth, relying on Waylon to catch him. 

With Eddie scarcely strong enough to hold his own head up, it was up to Waylon to pull him out of the cracked half of the pod. 

It was another struggle; Waylon was beyond tired and though Eddie tried to not crush him with his bodyweight, it took them long enough just to scramble out of the pod in one piece. He tried his best to not scrape Eddie’s wounds against the pod’s sides, placing his hands and arms preciously around the other so that none of the exposed gashes got glass in them. 

Once they managed to haul each other out of the pod, Eddie groaned, his head turning over his shoulder to look at something on the other side of the engine. Waylon followed him, looking at the edge of another pod. Of course. Hope.

Waylon stood torn. He looked back to Eddie, who’s gaze flitted between Hope and Waylon, the pair of them unsure what to do. Hope is Murkoff’s prodigy; pulling him out the engine would ruin their research permanently. Letting him die in it would hurt it even more. 

Squeezing Eddie’s side, asking wordlessly for permission to leave him to go to Hope, Eddie nodded and Waylon slowly lowered him to the ground before jogging to Hope’s pod. 

Up close, Hope appeared even more withered than Eddie, despite being half Eddie’s age and even younger than Waylon. A young man, a little older than a boy. A child, buried in the electric womb of the engine. Waylon, in that moment, became overwhelmed with hatred. Hatred for Murkoff, for Mount Massive, for himself. For months he had been getting paid to help fix the engine, knowing what it does to all those who enter it, and continuing anyhow. What kind of person can he call himself, when he saw what ruin the engine causes to people’s minds and bodies, and it took him so long to do something about it? His late, poor plan, even when he executed it, now proved itself to be useless. It would be a miracle if he and Eddie made it past the first set of doors, let alone managed to take Hope with them and live any longer than a day outside of the engine. Hope was this place’s lifeline, just like it was Hope’s. It’d only serve to kill them more if he came with them.

Christ, was he really about to leave this kid to die? To see him in the same position Eddie lied in moments ago and just turn around? He doesn’t know Hope like he knows Eddie, but what the hell does that matter? They’re all suffering; no amount of lunacy can account for spending the rest of your life down here. 

Just then, interrupting his strife, a familiar wail sounded from above, and in a blink, Waylon felt a force —like a concentrated wind— push into his stomach with enough strength to blow him back from the pod. He stayed in the air for what felt like hours, only to then suddenly land ten feet away from Hope. Pain shot across his back as he struggled to his knees, confusion and horror pushing him further away from Hope. Wrenching his eyes open, he looked up to the pod and was met with a fearful view:

Black smoke swarmed Hope’s pod, the body of the ghost from before gathering at the top of it, its aura coiling around the pod like a python. It hissed, and sharp static filled Waylon’s vision, making him cringe into himself, gripping his head. Behind him, he heard Eddie cry out in agony, equally affected by the ghost’s presence as Waylon was. Once the pain seemed to subside, if only for a heartbeat, Waylon lifted his head to see the ghost circling the pod, screeching at down to him. It was protecting Hope; or claiming him. Either way, it was enough incentive for Waylon to back away, stumbling back to Eddie.

They hobbled for the double doors closest to them, not daring to look back as the engine finally roused enough energy to shake the room and competed with the shrieking of the ghost surrounding it. Eddie still had his eyes screwed shut, blindly going with Waylon as they struggled as fast as they could for the doors. Waylon blinked through the static still flooding the corners of his eyes, his vision tearing up, causing them to trip up along the way as his sight faded in and out like a bad radio.

But they made it. Holy fuck, they made it. The doors swung shut after them, but that didn’t mean that they could stop. They needed to keep going. 

The floor was already beginning to shake, the engine bellowing as Waylon dragged the pair of them up a flight of stairs that hopefully lead to somewhere marginally safer than where they were. Sweat and swears occupied most of their breaths; even with Eddie occasionally gathering enough energy to claw up a few steps by himself, any progress they made was thin and hardly celebrated. Waylon’s whole body was screaming for rest, fatigue pawing at his arms, his legs, his eyes; all wanting to stop. But no, they have to keep going. Stopping means dying, and they won’t stop, even if dying seems like a far kinder option.

After the stairs came more doors, and after the doors came more rooms and halls. They passed the engine’s internal organs, desks full of broken computers, overturned machinery and, most horrifically, pools of blood, with no bodies to lie in them. 

More doors, more hallways, no end in sight. Soon enough, it became too much. If they continued any longer, their own bodies would stop for them. So they took refuge in a large bathroom, stowing themselves inside the largest stall at the end. It was spacious enough, with a supportive rest lying against the toilet bowl that Eddie took advantage of as he vomited, his gag reflex finally in motion after being violated by the metres of tubing rammed down his throat earlier. Once his stomach was empty, Waylon gave him some toilet paper to wipe his mouth with and flushed the vomit away, pulling him back and resting the ex-patient’s head in his lap as he sat against the wall.

The cool bathroom tiles were a welcome feeling against their sweating bodies, and once they cooled down, Waylon got up to drink water from the sinks, then bringing Eddie over to do the same. Back in their stall (the door locked and barricaded weakly by the paper towel bin propped underneath the handle), Waylon resumed his seat on the floor, leaning against the wall with Eddie’s head back in his lap. Through all of this, they had rarely spoken any words to one another, the only sound filling the bathroom was their faint breathing and the distant roaring of the engine. Waylon, fighting his exhaustion, listened out for any sound that posed a threat to their momentary peace, which, at this point, was every sound. Every drop of water or flickering light was a danger, and though sleep was all he wanted at this moment, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. His ears stayed trained to the sound of approaching footsteps and his eyes stayed open and wide, trained on the handle to their stall, just waiting for it to twist open. He needed to stay awake, vigilant, to make sure that they were safe, even if the mere idea of safety in such a place seemed laughable now.

After a while though, in the midst of their silence, Eddie suddenly cleared his throat, making Waylon jump and look down to him. His face was crusted over with blood and spit and vomit, one side of his face covered in lesions that would suddenly bleed every ten minutes or so, staining Waylon's jeans. His bare body was no better, the gaping wounds left from the tubing not having time to heal after the stress of the surrounding muscle moving around to get free of the engine. It was enough to make Waylon cry, but he won’t. Crying meant that there was no hope for healing, so for now, he just cupped Eddie’s cheek, being mindful of the sensitive scarring underneath his hand.

Eddie licked his lips before he spoke, his voice just above a whisper. “Lavender,” he rasped.

Waylon looked down at him, confusion clouding his expression. Eddie chuckled, then wincing from the pain it took to laugh and clarified, “You forgot about lavender. For the garden.”

And Waylon, despite himself, chuckled also, raking a hand through Eddie’s hair, lazily slicking it back from the ex-patient’s brow. They laughed quietly between one another, with Eddie staring into Waylon’s tearful eyes and Waylon staring in Eddie’s bloodshot ones, his pale blue irises swamped with red. And when Eddie fell asleep, with Waylon still petting his hair, Waylon looked back to the door, and restarted his mantra.

_ Roses, daisies, poppies, fireflies, daffodils, light, birdsong, snowdrops, apple trees, lilies, a hawthorn tree and lavender. Lots and lots of lavender. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are loved and welcomed :D


	4. Poppies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 bb! Another chapter from the past, carrying on the events in chapter 2 - we get some proper Waylon 'n' Eddie interaction in this one lol :P Enjoy!

**30 DAYS UNTIL BREAKOUT**

The night didn’t last long. It was ruptured by the sound of his phone ringing, jostling against the bedside table as it vibrated. He considered ignoring it, but his arm, apparently not on the same wavelength as the rest of his body, reached out from underneath the bedsheet, his fingers spread as he fumbled around for his phone. Once located, he held it to his eyes, wincing from the sharp brightness of the screen The caller ID indicated a name: ‘Andrew’, and Waylon weighed up the risks and rewards of just dropping the phone onto the floor and waiting for the room to fall back into its silence. However, try as he might to deny it, he knew that a call this late in the night —or, more accurately, this early in the morning— and from Andrew of all people, could not go unanswered. He answered it, clearing his throat briefly before he spoke.

“Yeah? Hello?”

“Park! Fuking Christ, I’ve been trying to call you for ages.”

“Yeah, well, most people are asleep right now, Andrew,” he mumbled, pushing himself up to sit against the wall the head of his bed lied against.

“Don’t play smart with me, Park. We need your ass over here at the engine.”

Waylon rubbed his eyes. “You mean you guys are still there?”

“Jesus fu- just get here as fast as you can. My reception down here is godawful so I don’t have the time to call you another thousand times to convince you to do your own fucking job.”

“I hear you. But what about the other people you have there? Other engineers, programmers, that sort of thing?”

“What ‘other people’, Park? They’re all at home, hours away from here. You’re the only one of them that lives under an hour away - so be goddamn quick about it. 

“Right, right. I’m on my way.”

“And if you need any more of a fire lit under your ass then have this: Blaire’s here and he wants to talk to you when you get here. Said it was something about your ‘performance’ - whatever the hell that means. If anyone would care to ask me, I’d say that your performance can be summed up by fact how I called you five times before now and when you finally pick up, instead of following my orders you ask me about other fucking people to do your own goddamn job.”

“Blaire? Really?” He had tuned out Andrew’s rambling, but upon hearing Blaire’s name his heart dropped into his stomach, the name alone enough to give him goosebumps. Blaire was more of a ghost than he was. An interloper between upstairs and downstairs like Waylon, but making a lot more money from it. What could Blaire want with him? His performance? He was here to help with their fucking computers, he barely says more than three sentences to anyone each day when he’s there; who was he performing for, and who cared enough to watch him?

“Yeah, so hurry it the fuck up, Park. I heard about your little freakout in the monitoring cell - don’t want to give them another reason to drop your ass any sooner, right?”

“I’m on my way. Uh, thanks for calling.”

After some struggling, he managed to haul himself out of bed, gritting his teeth as he placed his bare feet on the slightly icy floor tiles. As he stood up, the need to sleep almost knocking him back down on the bed as he did so, he waited a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the lighting. Though the moon supplied some helpful shine through the window, he still felt somewhat lost. He shivered, even though he wasn’t cold. He could feel sweat running down his back and neck, making the atmosphere seem to cling to him like a tight shirt. Shaking his head, he put his best foot forward and went on into the bathroom, splashing cold water over his face. In the mirrored cabinet above the sink, he saw himself and grimaced. Wasn’t mountain air supposed to work wonders on your health? Or maybe that’s just for asthmatics. Nope, no miracle cures for Waylon Park in the water here. And it showed as much in his reflection. He hasn’t shaved since he started at the hospital, the scruff around his face so itchy that it’s bordering on unbearable and the length of his hair was beginning to surpass his earlobes. Of course, he has never been one for overt practices of self-care (he hasn’t bought new clothes for himself in years, aside from the fresh pairs of socks and underwear that he treats himself to every now and then), but it was becoming increasingly more difficult to ignore the growing circles under his eyes, the droopiness of his eyelids, his rough brow and harsh frown. Has he always looked like this? Is the Californian sun really so healing that it has fooled him into thinking that’s he’s remotely okay? Maybe his contract had another row of small print that he had forgotten to read. ‘Warning! Residence near or in the shadow of Mount Massive Asylum for the Criminally Insane may result in looking like absolute shit for the entirety of the duration of your employment. Good luck loving yourself now, dumbass.’

“Fuck,” was all he could muster to say, feeling that it snugly suited the state of everything at the moment. Departing from the bathroom to get ready to leave for work in the middle of the night, pulling a sweatshirt over the shirt he had slept in, Waylon’s mind swamped itself with possibilities concerning Blaire. 

The great Jeremy Blaire. Not the worst Murkoff exec, by any means, but that didn’t make Waylon dread talking to him any less. Just because Blaire was the smallest wolf of the pack didn’t mean he wasn’t a wolf. Blaire was sleazy; all pinstripe suits and 2 pm martini breaks. Despite how Blaire performed as some intrinsic pillar on which all of Murkff rested, Waylon still can’t grasp his purpose, aside from being Murkoff’s mouthpiece. A man formed of an abundance of money and a severe lack of morals, but never one Waylon would associate with being concerned with work enough to stay after hours. And why does he want to speak with Waylon now? Why not in the morning, when his hair is more composed and his suit is fresh? They haven’t spoken since he shook Waylon’s hand in his office, swirling his afternoon drink around as he watched Waylon sign his employment agreement with narrowed eyes. Blaire has a snake’s gaze; glossy and hungry, a stare that made Waylon look away when he first met it, fearing that he’d turn to stone if he looked for too long. 

And what about Gluskin’s gaze? Asked his mind. It wasn’t stone those eyes reduced you to. Something softer, then. More disarming but still powerful. A wild horse’s, perhaps.

No, he realised, as he tied his shoelaces and gripped the door handle. Just a man’s eyes. Just a scared, weary man. 

_ So why did you turn away when you saw that he was watching you? _

Waylon didn’t answer. Instead, he opened his front door and left to go out into the night.

💮💮💮

He had less than half a minute to catch his breath in the elevator, having sprinted in from the front parking lot and down the myriad of the hospital’s halls with an impressive ten minutes to spare. Thirty seconds later, however, and he was back downstairs, walking almost the exact same route as he walked only hours ago. He wasn’t heading for the monitoring cells though, not this time. The engine had called for him and he, worried that especially with Blaire there, he’d loose more than just a few dollars off his paycheck if he ignored its cry, had come running. 

The engine lied further down the mountain than the cells, creating a whirlpool-like effect on Waylon’s sense of balance as he delved further downstairs. The deeper he went, the easier he found it to believe that maybe no one still working realised what time it is. Mount Massive has made them all nocturnal. The layout of the labs and cells make Waylon think of a Las Vegas casino; the lack of clocks on the walls and the abundance of reflective surfaces and lights making everything seem huge and eternal, like he was in the intestines of some great metallic dragon. 

Three more sets of double doors later and Waylon made it into the engine room. His entrance was messy, fuelled by the worry that he would waste another second if he didn’t rush in immediately.

The engine room (not the actual room that housed the engine, however; more like a control panel seated on a heavily armed observation deck) wasn’t what Waylon was expecting. He wasn’t expecting for there to be so few people here, and he certainly wasn’t expecting to be noticed by all of them. He shrunk against the wall as they looked up from their work and conversations to frown at him, confusion and boredom evident in their faces. Waylon looked awkwardly around the room, wondering where Andrew —his entire reason for being here— could be. It soon became terribly obvious that Andrew wasn’t here. In fact, no one Waylon recognised was here. This was the night team, and he was trespassing on their terf. 

“Sorry, I . . .” he began, reaching behind himself, his hand scrambling to relocate one of the swinging doors he had just burst through. “I thought . . .” all coherent thought had left him. Andrew must have betrayed him, a party trick for his colleagues, a cheap prank that threw Waylon right back into his time in middle school. He was grateful that the only real light source was the sporadic cracking of white light from the engine, granting Waylon only just a slip of light that was just to find his exit. “Sorry,” he muttered again before he felt something behind him give way and he felt his heart jolt in relief. The door; time to make his exit. 

Before he could depart from the room and flee his dawning embarrassment, a hand clamped down onto his shoulder. It wasn’t gloved, so it wasn’t a scientist, and through the thin fabric of his sweatshirt, Waylon could feel a metal ring on one of the hand’s fingers as it clamped down onto him. In his ear, a voice sounded that took Waylon everything in his power to not detract from, as if he had been bitten by the words it spoke. A voice like snake venom. Blaire's voice.

“Mr Park. So glad you could make it, and at such a late hour.” The engine cracked again, bathing Blaire’s smarmy expression in a shock of white light before plunging it in darkness again. Waylon let Blaire’s grip twist him away from the door, stilling as the exec then threw his whole arm over his shoulder, jamming his thumb in Waylon’s chest. “Now that’s what I call dedication,” beamed Blaire, gesturing for the others in the room to bear witness to the two of them. “I think you can all learn a thing or two from Mr Park here. The guy hasn’t even been here three months but he already knows the importance of the work we do here at Mount Massive, and rushed in as soon as we called.” He jammed his thumb further into Waylon’s chest, his blunt, manicured nail surely causing bruising for later. “He came here as soon as he could - no questions asked. See guys? It doesn’t have to be hard, Waylon here is proof of that.” The rest of the employees were too quiet for Waylon to make out their reaction. He didn’t need to see their expressions; he didn’t want to either. The hideous jolt of shame he felt constrict around his gut was enough of a giveaway. Blaire laughed, too loudly, and then clapped Waylon on the back harshly.

“Stay here, Park,” Blaire said. It wasn’t a request.

The engine cracked again and Waylon winced at the bolt of light flashing before his eyes. “What’s going on?” he asked, raising his voice as the engine up ahead began to stir. “Why did you want me here - Andrew said—”

“Forget Andrew, Park. That asshole left hours ago.”

“ _ What _ ? Then why am I here?” He was yelling now, the engine had been roused and was roaring as its operators played with its controls. The observation deck’s plexiglass did little to silence the engine’s tempest. His ears were starting to ring, some sector of the engine was producing this bassy sound that Waylon could feel in his throat. 

Blaire just shook his head. “Come with me to the window, there’s something I want you to see.”

So Blaire lead Waylon to one of the corners of the deck and handed him some strange banded object that Waylon had trouble decerning what it was until he saw that Blaire had a similar object and raised it so the band sat atop his head and— 

Oh, headphones. Right, of course. Waylon mirrored Blaire, fixing the speakers over his ears, the act drowning out the rage of the engine. Blaire tapped the small mic on his own set, watching as Waylon caught on and unfolded his mic. 

Through the mic’s static came Blaire’s fuzzed voice. “Word is going ‘round about your little hiccup with Gluskin.”

“That wasn’t anything.”

“Perhaps. But it wasn’t nothing either, was it?”

Blaire knocked the glass they stood near, gaining the attention of a nearby researcher. The researcher made a thumbs-up sign at them. Blaire nodded, coaxing Waylon closer to the glass; it was tilted slightly, so you could lie your whole weight against it for the best view, letting you position yourself ike a child pressed against the tiger enclosure. 

“I know that when you first came to us, Park, that you expected to be involved more heavily in the ongoings of the Morphogenic Engine. You have to forgive us for making you run around first, instead of bringing you properly into the circle. You know how it is. Security clearances, background checks - shit that was supposed to be done weeks before now. I hope you haven’t been too bored.” He didn’t wait for an answer. “And now that you’ve been given the all-clear, if only for a little while, I think its time we introduce you to the engine.”

Waylon chewed his lip. “Why at three in the morning, though?” That actually made Blaire laugh, but it was short and bitter.

“The engine is temperamental. It's better to say that it controls us than we control it. When it jumps, we jump. These guys—” he waved over at the bodies sat before the controls—“know it better than I ever will.”

“So the engine is jumping right now?”

“Practically leaping.”

There was another crack of light and another voice, one of the operators, announced to the deck. “Now bringing in patient 196 - E. Gluskin.”

Waylon’s whole body felt both drained and impossibly close to combusting. He had no time to react beyond watching a door near the engine slide up and four guards dragging in the heavy body of Gluskin. Gluskin looked remarkably calm; perhaps they have sedated him, it would explain the way his head was rolling as the guards carried him towards the engine. They had stripped him of his grey jumpsuit, revealing, even in such terrible lighting, the scars that littered his torso, the worst of them gathering in a thatched knot on his right shoulder. The favoured place for injections, no doubt. With horror, Waylon saw that some of the scars looked fresh; wounds, gaping and painful. Gluskin’s head must be too clouded, not able to comprehend much other than trying to drag one foot after another. The guards hauled him to one of the engine chambers, where a new team helped to cram him into the globe; the sight obscured by where Waylon stood on the deck. He doesn’t think he would want a true view anyhow. His heart feels like its bleeding, his vision blurring. Was he going to faint?

Blaire pressed his hand against Waylon’s back, a strong support he didn’t know whether to be grateful for or to despair in. The gesture, at face-value, is supportive, but Waylon knows what it means really: Don’t leave. Stay and bear witness. See and be terrified. 

In his ear, faintly, between the hum of building electricity and the rush of blood to his skull, he could hear the operator again. “Gluskin appears stable. Engine is receiving well. Now commencing the first phase of the Morphogenic Engine cycle in five, four, three, two, one . . .”

Light. Not the quick flashes from before, but pure, blinding white. Lightning. Terror. Rippling in droves across the filtered air of the room. Waylon looked away, shielding his eyes, waiting for it to all fade but it never did. Sounds of electricity, of power, pulsated all around him. He tried to move away from the sight, to save his eyes and the rest of him, but the hand on his back, Blaire’s ringed hand, pushed him closer. Blaire shoved him against the glass, until his palms lay flat against it and his forehead was pressed into it. Beside him, Blaire talked slowly, casually, upsettingly calmly.

“Look down, Park.”

Waylon shook his head as best as he could against the glass. The hand on his back left him, only to then return suddenly, gripping the back of his head intensely enough to make Waylon wince. 

“Look  _ down _ , Park.”

The grip on his head sharpened even more, and Waylon wrenched open his eyes. He cried, at first seeing only white. He heard the operator’s voice call.

“Phase one of the engine cycle is a success. Now moving onto phase two in five, four . . .”

A clicking sound, like a switch being pulled, and then the light dulled. It was still bright, but just gentle enough for Waylon to squint down as Blaire had told him. Below, his sight no longer obscured, he could see everything on the floor. 

Gluskin, hanging suspended in his chamber, his body contorted and constricted by the thousands of pale blue tubes surrounding him. Some were pierced into his body, one was filed down his throat, others served as restraints, keeping his body composed as his muscles convulsed from whatever the engine was feeding him. Tears began to prickle in the corners of his eyes. Waylon didn’t know if it was due to the intensity of the light still covering everything, or something else much deeper. At some point, Blaire released him, but he continued to lie against the glass, his entire body, right down to his soul, felt immovable, his eyes transfixed on Gluskin. 

“After you ran out of that monitoring room and everyone came back in, they told me how surprised they all were that Gluskin had come up to the glass to see you,” said Blaire. “And, when they later asked him about it, he acted as though nothing had happened between the two of you. Which, for Gluskin, isn’t unusual, but what  _ was _ strange is that he still asked about you.” Waylon felt Blaire stand closer behind him. “He wanted to know your name.”

Waylon moved to turn around and face Blaire, but was quickly brought back to the window as another burst of light came and with it, the sight of Gluskin’s body spasming in its chamber, his eyes — still so vibrant, despite all the darkness they’ve been subject too— rolling into the back of his skull, his teeth clamping down on the tube in his mouth. “What are you going to him? To all of them?” he asked, his voice raw. 

“The engine needs sacrifices, Waylon. It’s all for the betterment of the future, of that, I can assure you.”

“You’re torturing them.”

“Yes, we are.” That slip of honesty made Waylon inch his head away to glance at Blaire, still keeping his body to the glass. The exec continued, “We are torturing them. But the price of innovation doesn’t come without a few heads needing to roll.”

“You’re killing them.”

“Not immediately. Eventually, they’ll start to rot, but that’s not for another year or so, until a new batch comes in.”

“They’re just people.”

“They’re criminals, Waylon. Madmen,” Blaire rebuked, his expression souring. “Look down at him - do you know who he is? What he was before we plucked him from some two-bit ward in the south?”

Waylon dropped his head against the glass. “He’s just a man.”

Blaire scoffed. “Sure. Now he’s a cog - though, not even a valuable one. Keeps wasting our time and now he’s found himself a distraction in you.”

“But he didn’t do anything!”

Blaire ignored him, instead choosing to ask one of the operators, “How much time before phase three?”

“Two more minutes - Gluskin’s vitals are beginning to waver,” was the crackling response. Blaire sneered. 

“Move it up now. Park here wants to see some fallout.”

“Sir, we’re ready to do if needed, but you realise if we do that then we risk frying him alive—”

“Do it,” he snapped, looking back to Waylon. “It’s for Park’s own benefit.”

“Yes, Mr Blaire. Commencing phase three of the Morphogenic Engine cycle in five—”

“Now!”

More light this time, though this time it appeared with such sudden power that Waylon thought the force of its intensity alone would be enough to melt the glass he watched it through. His eyes immediately went to Gluskin, trying to make out his shape and dropping his mouth in silent horror as Gluskin’s body shuddered and shook uncontrollably before him, his eyes wide and wild from fear. Waylon is too far away to hear his scream, if he even can scream, in his state, but all it took was one moment of watching Gluskin —his back bent so horribly it looks like his spine might snap like a great tree branch and his expression so petrified it was almost childlike in its animated state— and Waylon felt his whole being ache. His entire self broke with Gluskin’s; he has never felt so wretched. The tears in the corners of his eyes broke away and now streamed down his face. His whole chest felt ready to burst, his body both too full and too hollow. Was this really how he felt about a man he’s never met? Was the engine scrambling his own mind, roping him in with the likes of murders and lunatics? He sunk to the floor and pressed his hands against the glass, putting his entire body weight into his palms as he watched Gluskin shake. 

To his right, Blaire crouched beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder that Waylon was too exhausted to ward away. 

“You’re too easily charmed, Park. Whatever Gluskin made you feel, was just your imagination. You have to learn to tune them out. For your own sanity. Before you end up in here with them.”

The exec rose back to his feet. “Shut it off,” he instructed to the operators. 

The engine was turned off and Gluskin’s hell was over. For now. The white light faded, along with the infectious humming and vengeful roaring. From his place on the floor, Waylon watched as Eddie’s body relaxed, still twitching from the aftermath, but otherwise free from the engine’s torment. The guards from before rushed over, ripping the tubes from and out of him with little to no care or expertise. One of the scientists below the deck came out and pried open one of Gluskin’s eyes to shine a light in them, waving a hand when they were done and stepped away to let the guards take Gluskin back to wherever they planned on dumping him. Waylon hoped there was a medical bay down there somewhere, some small grain of salvation.

With Gluskin gone, Waylon worked himself up to stand up from the floor, still leaning heavily on the glass as he slipped the headphones off from his crown and let them fall onto some nearby desktop. The operators got up from the control panel, stretching and turning the lights on on the deck, not making the place any cosier and certainly not making Waylon feel any warmer. 

Back on his feet, he slowly edged away from the glass, turning to see Blaire speaking to one of the operators before noticing Waylon. With a hand, he commanded Waylon over. Waylon trod over to Blaire but instead of stopping at him, continued past him. He has heard enough. Seen enough. Cried enough. 

“You’ll be getting another level added to your clearance,” Blaire called out, stopping Waylon on his way to the door. When Waylon looked over his shoulder, he saw Blaire watching him smugly. “We need you down here, Park. Which, of course, means more late-night visits. There are rooms down here, for employees. You can book a bed for whenever you’ll be working late - save you coming up and down the mountain unnecessarily,” he smirked. “Have the day off tomorrow. You can start on Wednesday - use the time to let everything sink in. Reflect on what we’ve talked about tonight.”

Waylon just stared at him, numb and blank. “Okay.” He moved back to leave again, wanting nothing more than to leave this place, this asylum. It was no longer a hospital in his mind, if he had ever truly regarded it as one in the first place. No healing takes place here, only harm. He had let the August heat trick him into thinking that the sun’s warmth was Mount Massive’s own, mistaking the orange glow in the halls as a sign that this place is somehow blessed. It’s nothing of the sort; the light and warmth down here is all false, a lie encrusted in a mountain. And Waylon was in the heart of it. 

“Oh and Park?” said Blaire.

“Yeah?”

“He asked to see you.”

This time Waylon didn’t turn back around, just hung in the doorway, the long icy hallway lying before him. 

“You can go to him now, if you like. He’ll be in his cell. First corridor you see down your right. Cell 6.”

He didn’t thank Blaire, merely nodded and left. He was free to leave, free to go back up to the surface and crawl back into bed. Dire needs to forget and move on and sleep consume overwhelmed him. He doesn’t want to think, not right now. Someone, anyone, please take away the sight of Gluskin in that chamber, of the thought of him being in his cell, shuddering and alone. _Someone go to him, because it can’t be me. Please don’t make it be me. I don’t know what’ll happen to me if I let myself see him. I’ll drown in those eyes and that’ll be the end of it. I’ll hear his voice and I’ll die._ These thoughts all plagued him, making him feel sick as he walked blindly down the corridor, with every intention of going left and up towards the elevator, right up until the very moment where he rubbed the remaining tears from his cheeks and turned right. Onwards, to Cell 6. 

💮💮💮

Finding the cell wasn’t the hard part, despite how much Waylon wished it could be. In fact, none of it seemed all too difficult. The route to the cells was built like a fortress; several reinforced doors blocking the path every fifty paces or so, all needing clearance to lift. The hallways are narrow and winding, making him feel like a rat maze; was this another trial by Blaire? Or something deeper. Maybe they didn’t want any possible escapees to know where they were going, the route designed to exhaust them before they even got to the first door.

Gluskin’s cell was one of six, lying behind one of six identical doors arranged in a hexagon around Waylon. The door leading to Gluskin’s had a white ‘6’ painted onto it, the removable nameplate reading ‘196 - E. GLUSKIN’. Waylon stood alone before it, the very act of reading his name feeling like some perverse invasion. He read the other names on the doors: C. WALKER, F. MANERA, W. HOPE, were some of the few. Did anyone outside of Mount Massive know that these people were still alive? He imagined relatives, friends, lovers writing letters, birthday and Christmas cards, and sending them . . . where? Was there a filing cabinet, or a furnace for them somewhere? Did they have some intern read and respond to them, assuring the senders’ woes with sweet, empty words, insisting that they should save their calligraphy sets and leave them to recover? He shook his head. He was here for Gluskin. It’s Gluskin that wants to see him, not Walker or Hope. Onwards.

Gluskin’s cell was huge. Derelict. Unassuming. But huge, nonetheless. An enclosure of sorts. No bars, just the same ten inches of acrylic glass from the monitoring and engine room, only with a thin metal food slot, floating a few inches from the ground. Behind the glass lay very little. A folding table with a few scraps of paper, some lined, some plain, and a purple crayon resting on top of it. Waylon recognised the purple as from a set of crayons that he had bought for Lisa’s kids a few birthdays ago. Do the other patients get to have the other colours? Did Hope get green, whilst Walker got blue? The thought was oddly warming, but it vanished soon enough. 

Waylon didn’t know what else he was expecting. A table, a chair (the kind that doesn’t have legs you can shatter off and file into stakes), a simple toilet and a thin, flat bed that was chained to one of the bare grey walls. And on that bed, curled up under a thin white bedsheet and quivering so minutely Waylon might have been imagining it, lied Gluskin.

His midnight reconstruction from earlier didn’t do the real thing any justice. No version of Gluskin in his mind compared to reality, as if his own fantasy couldn’t properly contain him. Even now, as the man lied like a frightened child with his arms around his folded legs and his face buried against his knees, Waylon had to refrain from stepping too close to the glass for a clearer look at him. How strange, Waylon thought, approaching Gluskin’s cell like one might approach a doe in a forest. How strange to see him like this, compared to their first encounter; Gluskin’s gaunt expression looking down at him and to now this, with Waylon watching him shake in a bed too small for his frame. The grey jumpsuit was familiar, at least, only now it was ridden with sweat, the darker parts clinging to Gluskin’s jolting back. From what Waylon could see, blood was seeping through the weak cloth at the shoulder as well. Gluskin’s skin —the patches that weren’t concealed by his jumpsuit— looked redder, too, stress and pain staining his complexion, almost as if the blood under his pallid skin too bright for his own veins, which were pulsing along his hands and neck. Through the small, pinprick sized breathing holes in the glass that ran in a horizontal line at the top and bottom of the glass, Waylon could make out his heavy breathing, which came out in short, racehorse puffs. His whole body rose and fell with his lungs, the rhythm so clear that Waylon had fallen into the same pattern. 

Time seemed to be avoiding Waylon. He was transfixed, mesmerised. Fear of speaking and ruining everything overtook him. If he so much as breathes too loudly, the doe will see him and run off into nonexistence. Gluskin will rage, appalled at being seen in such a state and this will be over before it’s even begun. _What will be over, though? What do you want to happen? I thought you didn’t want for this to happen at all . . ._

Maybe it’d be good to speak then, all things considered. At least then he’ll have a reason to abandon Gluskin and be done with this guilt that’s been with him for under twenty-four hours but has felt like an immortality’s worth. Go on, then, his mind teased. Free yourself.

Waylon steeled himself, bracing for the worst. 

“Gluskin,” he whispered. “Gluskin.”

From his cocoon, the patient lifted his head, craning his neck to look directly at him, the movement so slow it looked like an illusion. Gluskin blinked at him. Ah, there are those eyes, blue and beautiful, only now they were boring into him, like melon ballers. They were swimming in the brine leftover from tears and sweat, twisted between confusion, fear, and the stirrings of a seething temper. His hair fell in thick ropes over his stormy brow, his expression so thunderous that Waylon felt ready to flee just to escape his gaze alone. It briefly occurred to him that perhaps Gluskin wasn’t shaking out of fear or from his treatment at all, but from total, unbridled rage. And Waylon can’t say that he blames the man. He had only witnessed one night’s worth of Gluskin’s life at Mount Massive; to survive on anything, be it rage or fear, is understandable, so long as it keeps you alive. 

Waylon couldn’t look away, despite desperately wanting too. There were no rules he could follow, no worldly knowledge he can apply to this. Looking away seemed like suicide, but continuing to look seemed like even more of a damnation. This wasn’t his fantasy. He wanted to back home, not in Leadville but in Vacaville, where he can sleep in his own bed and scream into his own pillow and lose himself in the—

“Do you have the time?”

“What?” he spoke without thinking, forgetting Gluskin’s eyes to watch the patient frown with his wide mouth as he drew the white bedsheet closer around his shoulders. Dropping his head to lie it back down on the bed, Gluskin cast his eyes to Waylon’s wrist.

“The time. They don’t let me keep a clock down here. I was wondering if you knew.”

“Oh, right.” He couldn’t have moved any faster, taking any little excuse to tear his eyes away from Gluskin. “It’s uh, just gone four. A-m. 4 am.”

Gluskin nodded curtly, the action seeming more like a tick than a gesture. “Thank-you.”

“You’re . . . you’re welcome.”

Gluskin, thankfully, seemed to regard him with a fraction of less spite in his gaze now. How funny, that after such a short exchange Waylon has gone from feeling terrified to awkward. As if he had just given the time to a stranger on the bus and was now stressing over whether or not to strike up a conversation or leave it be. 

“I was hoping that it’d be breakfast soon,” announced Gluskin, the suddenness of the utterance making Waylon jump in his skin. 

“Yeah?”

“That’s why I asked for the time. I get so hungry around this time, but I could never place an hour to it,” Gluskin explained.

“Sure, sure,” Waylon agreed, albeit a bit too vehemently. “Very important meal, breakfast. Super . . . important.” Christ, has he always sounded this dumb? All the words in his mouth felt lumpy and uncomfortable, like lumps of coal.

“Mm,” Gluskin hummed, looking Waylon up and down. “Forgive me, but, how long have you been standing there?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Couple minutes, maybe. Sorry, I should’ve—”

“Were you watching me?” Gluskin asked, his expression darkening. 

“What? No! I just . . . I don’t know, I just got here. I didn’t want to. . . y’know . . . intrude.”

Gluskin’s face lifted from its gloom, if only for a moment. He looked at Waylon amusedly, before pushing up on the bed, adjusting the thin bedsheet around him so that it rested more on his shoulders like a shawl. As Gluskin leaned his head against the wall, his chin slightly tilted upward while he regarded him, it dawned on Waylon that, for supposedly being the one that wanted to see him, the patient seemed quite disinterested in him. It suddenly occurred to him that this was another one of Blaire’s jokes. Another hoop for him to jump through. Gluskin hadn’t wanted to see him at all, it was just Blaire feeding off whatever sympathy Waylon had for Gluskin. And now he was in the lion’s den with his foot accidentally pressed on the beast’s tale. 

“Do the lights ever, like, bother you?” he asked, inching oh-so closer to the glass. With the amount of apprehension he approached Gluskin’s cell, he might as well be walking along a tightrope. It was a dumb thing to ask. Everything must bother you here, until you get used to it but only out of sheer desperation. The man clearly has bigger worries than the swarm of stadium lights shining directly into his cell.

Gluskin shifted from where he sat on the bed, no doubt processing Waylon’s delirious question. “I don’t know,” he shrugged.

“You don’t know?”

“I mean that I’ve never really considered it - if they bother me or not, that is.”

“Are they on all the time, then?”

“I suppose.”

“Damn, that’d drive me crazy,” Waylon admitted, daring to smile sheepishly at his comment, before hastily realising that mentioning anything about insanity was beyond insensitive. Of course it’d drive you crazy, Waylon, his mind hissed. It’d drive anyone crazy. It’s designed to do just that. _Think, think._

“How do you sleep with them on?”

Gluskin blinked at him, not knowing how to react. Waylon can’t say he blames him, he wouldn’t know how to react to that either. “I don’t,” the patient answered plainly. “Not really. Not properly.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“For . . . for . . .” Why was this so hard? “For asking.”

“At least you’re acknowledging it. No one that has ever stood where you’re standing has mentioned it, the light,” Gluskin said, pointing vaguely at the spot of the floor where Waylon was standing so woodenly. “It’s nice. Makes me feel certain about one more thing - even if it's a small thing, like the lights. Though, having said that, I can’t tell if you’re actually real. ‘Could just be another hallucination from the engine. I always get them after . . . treatment.”

“I’m real,” Waylon breathed. “I promise.”

“Prove it,” challenged Gluskin, a glint in his eye where there wasn’t before. It was so bright that it almost drew attention away from the dark circles surrounding his stare, or the stark shadows looming over his cheekbones, or the bold scar dividing his right eyebrow. Waylon didn’t know what he could do. He can’t touch Gluskin, if he even wanted to at this point, and he knew nothing about the man beyond what he was currently learning. Did they even know each other’s names? Blaire had said Gluskin had asked for it, or was that another lie? Without daring to think, Waylon took the remaining steps towards the glass, only stopping when the toes of his shoes hit the barrier and placed his hand against it.

Though it wasn’t the one Waylon had been hoping for, Gluskin reacted to the action, his brow knitting and turning his away to look to his side, casting his gaze down to the squares empty space on the floor of his cell. Waylon’s heart sank, all of his romanticised ideas of finding something of a confidant in Gluskin sinking with it. He kept his hand up for a few more seconds, hoping against hope that Gluskin would look up, recognition filling his eyes. He wanted a nod, a smile, an intake of breath. A  _ sign _ . Gluskin gave him one, and Waylon dropped his hand, letting it hang back deftly at his side. The thought to go back to Leadville reemerged, but now it seemed less appealing. Maybe Gluskin truly didn’t believe that he was here, but maybe then he’d be more willing to speak honestly to him. Worth a shot. 

Waylon pointed to Gluskin’s shoulder, the one he remembered bleeding as he came out of the engine chamber. “Would you like me to find someone to look at that for you? It looks bad.”

He tried to smother his joy at seeing Gluskin look back to him. The patient chuckled soberly. “It’s all bad,” he remarked. “Don’t waste your time. I don’t want them messing with me any more than they do already.”

“Surely it’s painful.”

“It is. But it’s good. Pain is good. Tells me I’m alive.”

“There must be better ways of knowing you’re alive.”

“Are there? No one is here to remind me. I’m not even sure if you’re real.”

“You said you wanted to see me. I came. I can’t prove to you that I’m real, but you should know that I came here because I wanted to see you.”

“Please," Gluskin scoffed. "I don’t even know you.”

“Then what was—”

“I don’t know you,” the man snapped. “And I don’t wish to. I’m tired, leave me alone.”

“Well, I’m tired too.”

“Yes, but not for the same reasons that _ I _ am tired,” Gluskin retorted, his tone scolding. Waylon took a step back from the glass. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I’m sorry.”

Gluskin sneered. “That’s twice you’ve said that - are you the reason I’m in here?”

“No.”

“Right. Then stop apologising to me.”

“Okay.”

Their little dispute happened so rapidly that Waylon couldn’t even fully understand what he was saying before the conversation ended. He was losing Gluskin, he knew that much but not much else. Where do they go from here? Well, the ideal direction for Waylon to head in would be the one that leads back to his bed and takes him away from Gluskin. No point in staying and aggravating the man —or himself for that matter— any further. Maybe now he’ll find sleep easier and cry less hard. Whether Gluskin recognises him or not, let this be Waylon’s way of forgetting him; merely hours after thinking he wanted to know him.

“I’m going to go now - before I do, is there anything you want?”

“Yes. Get them to put a clock in here somewhere and turn the damn lights off - now that you’ve pointed it out, I can’t ignore it. And ask them if I can have eggs for breakfast.” Gluskin’s sarcasm was palpable, but Waylon still took comfort in the man having a sense of humour. It made Waylon smile.

“I’ll see what I can do. Good night.”

As he left, feeling himself become both lighter and heavier with each step, he heard Gluskin —his voice laden with an indescribable sense of marvel— call out:

“Goodnight, Waylon Park.”

And when Waylon turned his head to look back towards the cell, he saw Gluskin asleep on the bed, his back to him and his body rising and falling steadily. And as Waylon departed from Cell 6, and walked back to the elevator, and walked along the blue-bathed corridors of Mount Massive and out into the air and towards his car, he felt almost guarded as he did so, strangely protected by a warmth, not from the August heat, but from something else entirely. Gluskin knows his name, the notion making Waylon feel more real than the light breeze on his skin or the sky looking down at him. He makes a mental note before he goes to bed; to buy eggs for breakfast. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment and kudo, and all that nice shit <3


	5. Fireflies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Third chapter post-breakout down below, hope you like it!

**THREE AND A HALF HOURS SINCE BREAKOUT**

There was no light of day or dark of night to help him sleep or wake him up, but at some point, he must have closed his eyes, as the next thing he knew he was opening them to the sound of Eddie vomiting. 

He opened his eyes sharply, hissing at the fluorescent lights that were flickering above him like a dying insect. Hunched over the toilet bowl lied Eddie; he must have dragged himself out of Waylon’s hold earlier, struggling silently to the toilet to heave the last of his guts out. Waylon had half a mind to go over to him, like before, to rub his back or hum to him, like he does with the boys when they’re ill. Keep his hair away from his eyes and whisper little nothings to him. _There there_. But he stays seated against the wall, taking in the bizarre sight of Eddie’s godly body brought to its knees over a few mouthfuls of bile. Sweat glistened across his body, making him sparkle dimly in the half-dark of the stall, the solid muscles of his toned stomach bunched up from his bent position. 

Eddie leant back, spitting one last glob of puke into the bowl before wiping his lips with the back of his hand. His eyes glanced back to Waylon, widening them slightly when he saw that he was awake. Eddie got off his knees and sat across from Waylon, taking up the other end of the room. The stall was so large that they could stretch their legs out before them and not touch.

“Do you have the time?” Eddie asked, his voice deep but rough, making the words sound as uncomfortable to hear as they must be to speak. The familiarity of the question, though, still made Waylon’s heart tighten; Eddie’s first words to him, all that time ago, in Cell 6. Their first encounter.

He looked down to his watch, frowning when he saw how cracked the glass face was. When did that happen? He tried to squint past the fractures, to work out which way the hands pointed beneath the damage, but it was pointless. The face’s rupture had also resulted in one of the clock hands coming free of the watch, letting it slide around mindlessly, gliding over the twelve numbers every time Waylon turned his wrist, free of time. “Afraid not,” he answered truthfully. What an odd term: I'm afraid not. What wasn't he afraid of? Or did it mean he was afraid to say it, afraid that time has severed one of its hands? Afraid to tell Eddie? Should he be afraid of Eddie? He continued to frown at the watch, as if it were a bad pet. This watch was a birthday present from Lisa, for his thirtieth, he has worn it almost every day since he first got it, and now it is useless. 

He heard Eddie cough several times, making him look up from his watch and to the ex-patient. His sores haven’t calmed down since their break from the engine, all still an angry red topographical map that covered over half of Eddie’s face, the old blood still residing around the blisters and cuts looking like thick swathes of oil paint. “Aren’t you cold?” Waylon asks, because he is even whilst fully clothed, so Eddie, with only underwear for his modesty, must be too. 

As if unaware of his state of near-nudity until Waylon had drawn attention to it, Eddie crossed his arms over his chest, the action so childish it almost made Waylon laugh. “I could do with new clothes,” Eddie said, loosely answering his question, then crossing his outstretched legs, folding into himself. 

Waylon nodded, trying to stop his eyes from wandering. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of the skin beneath Eddie’s jumpsuit most nights, if he hadn’t dreamt of his pale skin against his, to properly take Eddie in, to run his hands over his shoulders, his chest, his waist. To palm and squeeze and grope and just  _ touch _ . But not like this, not during the aftermath of a possible asylum breakout. This wasn’t part of the fantasy. Later, then. Much, much later. 

He rose to his feet, bracing himself against the wall as he waited for his legs to wake up with the rest of his body. His bones creaked and complained from the absurd demand for movement. He twisted his back into action, copying the warmup movements he saw his mother do in front of the TV when he was a kid, imitating the lycra-clad women on the screen as they wound their bodies into life. Eddie rose with him, with a distinct lack of the amount of difficulty Waylon moved with. What have they done to him, to make him so frail and yet so durable? Drugs and hormone therapy and endless sessions in the engine have made him terrifyingly resilient. Was he this tall before Murkoff? This broad? He looked like a caricature in places, an ideal rather than a person; the thick slope of his neck, the cut of his jaw, the bold outline of his nose and brow, the vastness of his torso, and the unbridled strength of everything else. God, he was so _ much _ that it hurt to look at him sometimes, like you needed to take several steps back to absorb him more efficiently, like art, or an explosion. 

Waylon moved to the bathroom stall door, moving to unhinge the lock and the wastebin lodged under it. As he left the stall he heard the soft pad of Eddie’s bare feet follow him, calling out to him from the doorway of the stall. “Where are you going?” he asked, his voice toeing the line between accusative and wary. 

Waylon turned around. He didn’t know what he was expecting by just walking out on Eddie, of course he would need an explanation. “I’m going to go get supplies,” he said simply. 

“I’m coming with you,” Eddie stated, already leaving the stall to join him by the sinks. The mirrors that lined the wall were muggy, making their profiles look like smudged watercolour pieces. 

“No, I need you to stay here - you’re still not right enough to leave.”

“I disagree,” Eddie argued, but as he said this, he stumbled, keeping a straight face as he did so, but pain was evident in the way he reached out to the side to grip the edge of a sink to steady himself. He grunted, obviously trying to steel himself. “You don’t know what’s out there.” He shook his head, fighting the static that must still fester behind his eyelids. “You need me with you, I can help.”

‘Help’ meant ‘protect’, Waylon thought, but he knew Eddie was right. It might have been more than just the engine that has collapsed, the sudden rush for staff to evacuate the premises only now just coming across as suspect. Who orders a mass evacuation for a coding hiccup? Whatever lied up and beyond their groggy nest was uncharted territory. If the engine’s ghost didn’t get to them, then patients, or worse, staff, would. 

“You can’t help me if you can’t even walk by yourself,” Waylon retorted, albeit a bit quietly. 

“I’m not letting you go out there alone,” Eddie said, letting go of the sink to fold his arms again. They waited for one another to rebuke the other, before Waylon sighed, approaching Eddie and gripping his arms lightly, mindful of the scarring left over from the pod.

“I’m not going far,” he promised. “Half this place is on lockdown anyways, so it’s not like I can go wherever. I’ll be within screaming distance.” In a moment of tenderness, he moved one his hands up to hold Eddie’s cheek, brushing his thumb over the small slip of skin that wasn’t littered with sores. The ex-patient neither flinched from him nor embraced the action, merely stared down at him, still not fully sold. “We need supplies, Eddie,” Waylon pleaded. “Food, medication, clothes - anything that might help us get out of here alive.”

“And what if you don’t come back? What if you leave me here, forever waiting?” Eddie asked, his tone sharp, bitter. It was a side Waylon had rarely seen, the side of Eddie before they first came to know one another. The sick and lonely half, the piece of him still rotting in Cell 6. 

“When have I ever not come back to you?” It hurt, deeply so, to see Eddie genuinely questioning his loyalty. Had his extended time in the engine made him unfamiliar to Eddie? Was he looking down to a stranger? Or, even worse, did he know who he was, and worry he’d abandon him regardless?

Eddie sneered, ceasing Waylon’s wrist and pulling his hand off his cheek harshly. Waylon froze, preparing himself for anything. Eddie muttered something, “Ungrateful . . .”

Waylon’s soul bled. How stupid of him to think he’d be exempt from the walking horror that was Eddie Gluskin, a man that has killed and may still kill. He tried to imagine their moments together before the engine, a saner, simpler time, an Eddie that wasn’t covered in his own blood and stared at him like a predator. But it was too gloomy in here, he was suffocating, his hand starting to go cold from how tightly Eddie gripped his wrist.

Waylon breathed in sharply, afraid to so much as try and tug himself free. “Eddie,” he tried. “Eddie, you’re hurting me. Eddie—”

“Don’t say my name,” Eddie warned, finally releasing his wrist. Waylon stayed still and close, fearing that moving too quickly would only serve to ruin the tension. Such a dreadful thing, to fear what you thought you knew so well, to have thought yourself the one exception from the rule, only to be proven wrong. 

He cradled his wrist, running his fingers over the faint red mark Eddie left. Eddie watched his wrist as well, his brow furrowed, as if he was trying to figure out what had caused the mark to occur. “You’re hurt,” he murmured. Not ‘I hurt you’, not ‘I’m sorry’. Eddie reached out for his wrist again, but Waylon moved his hand away, the action not intentional, just a knee-jerk reaction. It worried him, the ease in which it took to suddenly fear Eddie, as if this was always how things were between them. But it wasn’t, and it won’t be. 

Filling the heavy silence between them, Waylon spoke. “I won’t be long, but I need to go. I don’t want to leave you, but I’ll fare better if I don’t have to bring you with me.”

“I’ll slow you down,” Eddie said, though not in agreeance, more in mockery. His tone is still too sour. 

“Yes,” Waylon agreed, risking bruising Eddie’s ego for the sake of being truthful. “But once we recover, we can go together. The longer we spend down here, the more time it gives whatever’s out there time to find us.”

Eddie sneered again, glancing over to the mirror above the sink. Waylon joined him, looking at the pair of them, their soft visages staring right back at them. The mirrors were filthy, melting their features into one mass of shadow and light and, in Eddie’s case, blood. If his phantom looked this wretched, then he dreaded to think what he seemed like to Eddie. They suited this place now, the inside now a perfect reflection of the outside. In the mirror, Waylon’s mirage spoke to Eddie’s, “I’ll be quick. If you rest, then the time will go by even faster. Then we can leave, and I’ll let you ‘help’ me as much as you want.” Even though having Eddie will be useful, he refuses to become dependent on him. They will work with each other, not for one another. 

Eddie continued to glare at his reflection, his face twitching in either pain or thought. Eventually, he sunk his head, nodding. “Okay. Go.”

Grateful, Waylon came closer to Eddie, holding his hand over Eddie’s on the edge of the sink. His skin felt thinner somehow, his knuckles like jagged rocks submerged only partly in water. But attached to that hand was a hard arm, capable of choking Waylon if it were to be wrapped around his throat. He shivered as he thought. Eddie was a walking contradiction, in more ways than one. Strength and weakness, sanity and madness, love and rage. He was a house built out of playing cards, impressive but nervous; one breath was all it would take to make it come crashing down. 

Eddie didn’t push Waylon’s hand off of his, which he was also grateful for. As he slid his hand off, Eddie turned his head slightly to him. “You’ll come back,” he said. It was both a demand and a plea. A promise than he wanted to be kept.

“I will.”

💮💮💮

He would have preferred to have left Eddie on better terms, but he couldn’t put off the restless call of his hunger any longer. He had skipped breakfast, and they were too far from the sun to discern what meals he’s also missed since the engine breakdown.

True to his word, he had made sure to not stray far from the bathroom, both for Eddie’s sake and his own, as he doubted he’d be able to find his way back after a while, so he paid special attention to each hallway. But each new hall looked like an exact duplicate of the other, the only exception being the occasional pools of blood he’d need to step over. He tried to keep his eyes off the sticky pools, not giving himself the time to wonder how they came to be there. During their rest in the bathroom stall they hadn’t heard any screams or cries for help, nor any hissing from the engine ghost; what was this silent creator of blood then? A rogue patient? A SWAT team sent down by Blaire? Hope and his spectre? It didn’t bear thinking about. So he followed the blood, and hoped it’d lead him somewhere more devoid of life than full of it. He felt like a mouse, that had narrowly avoided the snake’s teeth, only to wind up in the long graveyard of its stomach. Onwards. 

He passed several rooms, mostly locked, others barren, save for the brass and silver plumbing of the engine filling almost all of them. The halls shook less frequently the further he walked away from the engine, the distant sound resembling quaint snoring, like a cartoon wolf sleeping in a children’s book, snoozing after having devoured grandma. 

The lack of sound irked him more than the presence of it. Sound gave him something to be wary of, silence only filled him with more paranoia, but he has always been like this. Living in cities has made him restless without the acknowledgement of people roaming the dark, a sort of safety taken in the fact that if he was to yell into the night, someone would hear him, and maybe even call back. He was too afraid to yell down the dark halls now, the idea that there’d be no one or, even worse, someone to hear him. If he screamed now, would Eddie come and get him? His murderous knight, coming without question to collect him, to chastise him and make him forget that he ever thought it’d be a good idea to go out into the unknown alone. But Eddie is also the unknown; there’s something mixed in with the blood in his eyes, something new that Waylon doesn’t recognise. Or maybe it’s always been there, just buried, now resurrected by the engine, like worms rising from the dirt after heavy rain.

Regardless, Eddie’s changed, or revealed himself. Waylon no longer feels safe, but he knew that this was inevitable; he let Eddie’s favouritism get to his head. Without the inches of glass between them, there was no barrier. They can do anything to one another now. They can reach out, touch, harm, hold. Have. Hurt.  This was all preventable, if he had just been more aware. Ah well, no going back now.  _ Unless you go, up and up, leave him in the bathroom, waiting. Throw yourself at the mercy of Blaire, tell them where to find him. You might just be allowed to live. They might even spare Lisa and the boys _ .

Impossible, he thought. Survival isn’t an option for him, not in the eyes of Murkoff, not when Blaire seems so hellbent on revenge. If he goes up to them, the best he can hope for is a single bullet to the back of his head, any other option isn’t worth thinking about. No, he’s committed now, he can’t leave Eddie, not now, not ever. Till death do us part. 

He happened across a door, left slightly ajar. Slowing down, he stood before it. There was no plaque over the pale blue body of the door, just a black crack in its side, so perfectly arranged it seemed staged. A trap. But he had been walking for what felt like ages, and he needed to head back soon before Eddie started to think he had abandoned him. With the toe of his shoe, he nudged the door open, and an automatic light was triggered on the other side, giving Waylon a full view of its insides as the door creaked aside. 

It was a kind of locker room, like you’d find in a high school, for students to change in. Stepping inside, Waylon was met with the smell of iron. Blood. He turned his head, and saw a particular locker that stood differently to the rest. Its door was dented, as if something inside had tried to punch its way out. There was a distinct spray pattern lying outside the locker, thick red drops congealing between the grates in the bashed door. He waited for movement, but there was none. 

Moving towards it, he wrapped a shaking hand around the handle, which lied partly out of its place in the door, reminding him of an eye dangling on the end of a vein, free of its warm socket and swaying against the cheap cheek of a halloween mask. He shook his head, steady now.

He did not know what he needed to see what lies inside the locker, perhaps it was to stop his speculation, to solve the mystery with a cold slab of evidence. Seeing is believing, is the phrase people use, and he needs to see, so that he can believe that he won’t meet the same fate. There was no time to doubt his curiosity, however, as all it took was the slightest pressure on the handle and the door flung open, bringing the body braced against it slamming into the floor. One glance was all it took to tell that it was the body of a guard, caught half in uniform, half in their regular clothes. He must have poked his head out of the door to the room when he heard the sirens, only to see something barrelling down the hall towards him, and hid in the locker, only for it to then become his coffin. This is just a guess, of course. Pure speculation. For all he knows, this body might be the cause of all the pools of blood lying outside, only to then be stuffed in the locker, for safekeeping. Kept safe for what?

Shivering, he knelt down to the body, the tips of shoes less than a wisp away from the dead guard’s ear. It landed face-down, he didn’t want to turn it. He hardly wanted to look at it, but he needed to. He needs to make this real, to prove that there is something more to this. Was this Hope? Could such a young thing be capable of such Old Testament horror? From what he could see, blood littered the body’s jaw, as if its cries had materialised into blood. The human body is full of surprises, cut it here or there and sometimes you get fireworks, or drips, or oozings, all exuded in perfect red, the colour of life. He tried to think of other red things, as a distraction: Strawberries and peppers, but also raw meat. He remembered reading about a breed of vulture, that covers itself in a specific kind of sand to stain its feathers red. He can’t remember why, but he assumes for the usual animal reasons; dominance, attraction, defence. This bird also lives off of bones, avoiding the ripe flesh of carrion for the marrow lying underneath. None of this matters, but it's a good game to play, to stop him from looking to closely at what lied before him. He won’t take the bones from this body, nor will he rub its blood onto his skin for protection, instead, he’ll just take the boots from its feet. 

He rolled up the ankles of the guard’s pants, trying to twist the feet around without having to shift the whole carcass over. The body was fresh, the only smell it exuded was the animalistic tinge of blood and sweat, strong, but not strong enough to hold him back from fiddling with the laces wrapped around the sturdy black boots. With much shaking and wiggling, he managed to pry one boot free, aligning it with his own shoe. He hadn’t asked for Eddie’s sizes, thinking he wouldn’t have much time or options and would just have to resort to eyeballing everything. These would have to do. 

He wrestled the other boot free and tied the laces of each shoe together, slinging them around his neck like an avantgarde scarf. He’d take the body’s clothes, but they were covered in blood, and he wanted Eddie to wear something not already tainted, if he could help it. They’d need fresh clothes now for when they’re dirtied later on, facing who knows what. 

He inspected the rest of the lockers, thankful to find most of them unlocked and none of them stuffed full of bodies. Most of the people in here must have left as soon as they heard the sirens, not even bothering to lock their lockers. On the inside of one door there were photographs, a man and a girl, the girl appearing not much older than Adrian. The man was holding her on his hip, smiling so much that you couldn’t see his eyes, his daughter the same, their eyes like little pushed over crescent moons, carved into their faces, with more slivers of moon adorning the corners of the man’s smile and forehead, like an astrology map. He considered taking the photo, as a reminder. A reminder that most of the people here are like him, with families and bills and the desire to go home at the end of each day. He left the photo.

There was a variety of clothes to go through, which Waylon picked up, sized, frowned, then folded and put back in the locker. He had no idea why he insisted on folding the clothes and putting them back where he found them, not when there was a shoeless body lying a few feet away from him. Perhaps he didn’t want to disturb anything more than it had already been disturbed, like a crime scene, or a forest. Leave your campsite cleaner than you found it; something he learnt during Boy Scouts. 

The clothes he found for Eddie were a white vest (a wife-beater, they’re also called, but he felt that the name was inappropriate, or, more horribly, too appropriate) and two different pairs of socks, in case the boots were too small and they’d have to improvise. 

It wasn’t just clothes that he managed to prize from the lockers either. In one of them was a small brown paper bag, inside of which was a sandwich and two oranges. He didn’t bother checking the sandwich filling, instead, he pulled one of the oranges out of the bag, marvelling at the colour and the waxen texture of the skin, round and full and just slightly starting to give off that old Summer smell, marginally overthrowing the smell of blood. He was already salivating, imagining the taste that would flood his mouth the second undressed it, prying a segment free and sinking his teeth into the small orange curves. Also in the same locker, hidden behind the bag, was a long metal Thermos flask. Shaking it, he heard its contents swirl inside, the flask a comforting weight in his hand, at least half full. One sip told him that it was coffee, lukewarm and more bitter than he likes it, but he welcomed it all the same, trying to trick himself into thinking it was supposed to be cold, like that iced crap Lisa always got. He gripped the cool metal of the flask, seeing his shadow reflected in it. It would make a good weapon, he thought. A blunt instrument that could easily knock a few teeth out, if swung with enough force. King Arthur had Excalibur, he has his Thermos. He chuckled at the comparison, then looked over his shoulder, afraid he was heard, but no, he was alone. 

He bundled up everything but the shoes into his plaid shirt, turning it into a makeshift bindle minus the stick, and slung it over his shoulder, making sure to not get any blood on anything as he packed, wary of the red pool emerging from the body’s head, like a melted thought bubble, only a few steps away. 

Leaving the locker room, closing the door properly behind him, out of respect, Waylon ventured further down the hall. It was a gamble; he had done good with his search, and he doubted he had much time left before he needed to return to Eddie. He hoped exhaustion would make the ex-patient rest while he journeyed, gathering up his strength before the long haul. But no, Eddie won’t sleep, not whilst he’s away, not when he’s at risk. He knows Eddie will come if he screams for him, but will he come for Eddie if he hears him cry? 

💮💮💮

He was running out of places to explore, he was now fully in the engine’s domain, walking past closet after closet full of valves and monitors left unattended. The sandwiches and oranges won’t last them forever. Why did he think they were going to be here forever? There was blood, and the ghost, but these did not mean an apocalypse awaited them. He had yet to encounter anything alive or volatile during his trip, so why was his heart beating so rapidly? What was there to fear if everything was dead?

These questions don’t do him any good. Questions in Mount Massive don’t give anyone answers, least of all the answers they want. Most likely, he wanted to search for supplies as an excuse to get away from Eddie, to leave him if he wanted and get away far enough without being found. It was just him and Eddie in these halls now, the only things still alive, maybe that was the cause of Waylon’s fear. He wasn’t scared of strange limbs crawling along the floor to grab his ankle, not as much as he was scared of the idea of Eddie turning on him. It has taken so little time to think this way about a man he cares so much about. The things they said to one another in the courtyard are like distant dreams now, whispers in the wind. Eddie never did requite what he screamed to him, as the guards pulled them apart. He said nothing, just looked. What held him back, besides the guards?  _ Why didn’t he say it back? _

💮💮💮

Salvation comes in many forms, but for Waylon, as of right now, it came in the form of a laundry room. It wasn’t even locked, the door swinging open with the smallest nudge from Waylon’s hand, so easy that it seemed almost unreal.

There were no bodies stuffed into the giant industrial machines this time round, the circular lids of each washing machine like the eyes of whales, so big but so lost, watching more than what was just in front of them. The room was spacious but not huge, the eight or so washing machines taking up most of the walls. The lights were shut off, the open door letting in enough light to illuminate the end of the room, where a wall composed entirely of shelves stood at the back, containing giant boxes of detergent, bottles of soap and best of all, piles upon piles of neatly folded clothing. 

Pushing past a laundry trolley, that wheeled away until it bumped against a washing machine with a soft thud, he made a beeline for the shelves. They must have built this place after the older laundry room upstairs got turned into a new security room, the clunky cleaning machinery ripped out and replaced with rows upon rows of newly purchased screens and state-of-the-art radios. He’s been inside it, the new surveillance room, only a couple of times. The room had smelt of that musty fresh paint smell, mixed in with the breath of the guards, reeking of whatever they had on their lunch break. He had sat in front of the newly installed screens and was going through the technology for them. Some had stood near the back, arms folded, thinking themselves above it. Others loomed over him as he fixed their computers, as he explained to their dull faces how the new system was supposed to make their jobs easier. They didn’t strike him as people who prefer ease in their jobs, though, they appeared to him as the kind of people that suppose hardships and inconvenience are as valuable in a job as the successes. They looked at him like he was a prize pig among boars, imagining that Waylon thought himself as more intelligent than the rest of them. He had felt inadequate, a poser. But not anymore, now he was a survivor, for now. He’s alive until he stops living, however quickly that may come whilst he’s down here.

Like a thing possessed, he rifled through the stacks of clothing, trying to find the right jumpsuit for Eddie and, if he could, one for himself as well. He flicked through various numbers, knowing that’d it just be wasteful of his time to try and find Eddie’s number, if it even existed amongst these piles, but it was something he had set his heart on now, and he was becoming obsessive. There were more orangery-brown jumpsuits than there were grey ones, the jumpsuits of the Exclusives obviously in less demand that the rest of those for the inmates above ground. He landed on a brown jumpsuit for himself, number 2536, and immediately set about changing, the sharp  _ zwip _ of the zipper startling him with how loudly it sounded against the silence of the room. He found a jumpsuit for Eddie not long after, with buttons instead of a zipper, like he usually wears, everything held together by a few stretches of cloth and six plastic discs. Eventual access, over the zippered jumpsuit's quick reveal. 

Though he would have liked to have been able to keep his jeans, he knew that if patients were roaming freely around, he might be able to fool them into thinking he was one of them; he was dishevelled enough for it. It would have been handy to keep the jeans for when they get out, but that was something to stress later on. He kept his shoes on, obviously, and kept his undershirt on beneath the jumpsuit, slinging his plaid shift over the suit, wanting to at least stay warm. He stuffed his jeans into a random washing machine, emptying them of anything useful beforehand, like his wallet and security pass. He found a stray laundry basket liner and stuffed all of his finds into it, knotting the drawstring for good measure. He continued to root around, thinking perhaps staff might have dropped something, anything of use that they can use. Aside from the Thermos flask, the locker room had held none of the tasers or batons he’s seen guards walking around with, probably taken along with their owners during the evacuation. A weapon would be good right about now. They'll have to improvise; a toothbrush, or a pencil would be fine, something to whittle into a sharp a dangerous point, something to keep his hands busy during their breaks. 

As he ransacked the room, he suddenly heard the approaching thunder of footsteps. Someone running, no, sprinting. Someone coming closer and closer. With little time to think, he stuffed himself into a corner, damning his stupidity at not closing the door upon his entrance to the laundry room. With the footsteps came breathing, laborious and loud, but not exactly vengeful. The breathing of prey, suddenly separated from the herd. The sound of the chased. There was a fault in the pattern of the footsteps, a delay; they were limping.

In the darkness, the sprinter came to a halt in the doorway, the lighting so contrasted against them that their figure was a black cutout against the brightly lit hallway. They shook as they regained their breath, taking a minute to calm themselves down before entering the room, trying to find their own crevice to stuff themselves inside. 

Waylon watched them from his corner, his vision adapting better to darkness than the last time in the observation deck. The figure wore something that at first glance he thought was a dress, but was merely a lab coat. A doctor then, if that’s what you can call them in here. He doubts they were employed to heal anyone, merely revive the occasional corpse for the next big experiment. But now they weren’t anything, they had become a cockroach, like himself, trying to find some dark hole to reside in whilst the world burns outside. He felt oddly territorial, but also felt a strange kind of comradery with this figure. He wasn’t the only one out of his element then, there’s still sanity to be found in wanting to hide, to be kept apart from whatever madness was shaking the cleaner quarters of this place. 

The doctor slammed the laundry door shut, sealing them both in complete darkness. The doctor swore, followed by what could only be the sound of him doubling over a stray laundry cart. It took both of them a moment to realise that the sound of footsteps hadn’t stopped with the doctor. There were others approaching. The predators. 

“Christ,” the doctor swore, his voice not familiar. There was the sound of him clambering into the laundry cart, pulling the dirty clothing over himself. Waylon stayed nestled in his spot, stiff from remaining so ludicrously crouched over his bag of loot, like a gargoyle.

The stampede got louder then quieter as it approached and passed the door. They yowled as they went, maddeningly banging on the walls and laughing. Patients. Other Exclusives? Have they passed Eddie? Did he join them? He gripped the drawstring of the laundry bag, readying himself to sprint once the footsteps fade completely. He could stay until the doctor leaves, but he knows that may take time, time that he doesn’t have. The doctor may scream, but he won’t be around for any longer than a second to reap the consequences, and then he’ll be back with Eddie, if he’s still there. If he’s still alive. He will be. He has to be.

But the footsteps were coming back, more specifically, one set of steps. The narrow line of light from underneath the door flashed as whoever was outside paced back and forth. He tried to remember if the doctor had locked the door, then he worried if the door had a lock on it at all. 

“Wait!” A voice hissed outside the door, drawing more footsteps to the door, blocking the line of light completely. They all muttered, coughed, spluttered, cackled. It was impossible to tell how many there were, they all sounded different with each word they spoke, a wall of mad graffiti, overlapping and overpowering one another. One of them hissed something accusative, another wheezed something derogatory, and then there was a loud knock, the door swung open. There was a beat, as if no one could believe how easy it was, and then they all stuffed themselves through the doorway like water into a car that had fallen of a bridge and into a river.

It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so awful, the fraction of a minute it took for them to find their prey, two of the shadows giggling as they overturned the laundry trolley, spilling the poorly hidden doctor onto the floor. They most likely weren’t even doing it to find anything, just to cause a disturbance, the newly illuminated doctor that tumbled out of it. The doctor was lanky, thinner and taller than Waylon. The patients, in their stained uniforms (brown, not grey. They were regulars, travelling South to hunt. So the shutdown had affected more than just the engine afterall) all varied in size, but none of them resembled Eddie. Their different heights reminded Waylon of a vintage doll collection, all unique, all creepy. 

The doctor, not missing a beat, tried to scramble away but one of the broader ones ceased his arms, pushing him face-down into the floor. He was wearing glasses that dug into his face, the pressure of the patient pushing down on him audibly cracking one of the lenses. A smaller patient sat on his back, laughing at the doctor struggling to breathe underneath them. They were playing with their food.

Some rambled, most of them argued, a few of them laughed. “Lemme do it.” “It’s my turn.” “ _ I _ found him.” “You didn’t find shit!” “Look at him wriggle!” “Fucking parasite, playing with brains.” “He’s turnin’ blue! Ha!”

All the doctor could do was whimper, all the energy to scream pushed out of him like a balloon. They brought him up occasionally, only to knock him right back down with a metal pole the largest one had dragged in. Blood flowed, and the laughter grew. 

Whilst still on the floor, the doctor’s eyes rolled around in his skull. His head, if it were to suddenly spring free from its neck and roll forward, would stop in the same corner Waylon occupied. Waylon was breathing so shallowly that his heart jolted several times in his chest, almost giving him up. If sharks stop moving they die, if he doesn’t get out of here soon then he’ll meet the same fate at the doctor currently having his ribs cracked five feet away from him. 

But then, because fate always has a dark sense of humour, the doctor lifted his head, squinting into the spot of darkness Waylon had stowed himself away in. They looked at one another, the light beaming across the doctor’s smashed glasses obscuring his gaze a bit, but it was clear that they were looking at one another. Waylon shook his head, slowly, pleadingly. No, not now. Please. 

The doctor, either too pained to notice or out of spite or, more devastatingly, he wanted his pain to be transferred, opened his mouth, spitting out blood and a tooth before he slurred, “Stop.” It was barely understandable, sounding more like a guttural prayer than a single word. ‘Ssstohhpp’. 

Waylon froze. He could bolt, but there were too many bodies, too many obstacles. The doctor continued, “Stop, stop. Sttop.” Eventually they got sick of hearing him, one of the patients gripped his skull, yanking him upright and spitting on his cheek. “Quiet,” he hissed, another patient behind him lining up the pole to bring down on the doctor’s skull.

“Look,” the doctor begged, his eyes comically wide as he stared directly at Waylon. What could he do? He shrunk, trying to minimise himself, hoping that if he focused hard enough, he might vanish. The patient laughed, far too loudly, but then the doctor began to cry, “Look! Look!” his mouth slurring everything into a thick mash of syllables. ‘Lohhck, llohk.’

“He ain’t bullshitting ya,” one of the patients said. “Well, I can’t see shit,” someone else quipped. “Look better, prick,” the largest one snarled, catching on. They pointed with the pole towards Waylon. “We got a goddamn voyeur in our midsts, getting off on  _ our _ party.”

For a moment, it seemed as though the doctor was smiling, or maybe it was just the way the patient was holding his jaw, squishing his cheeks into his remaining teeth. 

One of the patients approached the corner, but before they could grab him, he rose to his feet, clutching the laundry bag to his chest. The new position made him more visible, and the patient heading towards him stopped a moment, to take him in properly, before grabbing his arm and pulling him closer for the gang to have a better view. 

Waylon wound his eyes shut, afraid to open them. He’s a coward, he can’t face them, mostly because he’s afraid that looking to them will be taken as an act of defiance. But not looking at them might be taken as a side of disrespect, but it doesn’t matter. These people are insane. They’re ill. They’re nuts. They’re hurt. They’ll kill him.

But nothing happened, there was no raucous laughter, no snide whispers, no sharp sweep of the pole against his head. Just panting from the doctor, who had been punched in the lungs (from the sounds of it) and left to rot on the floor for a while longer. What’s holding them back? He cracked open an eye, and saw their severe silhouettes watching him.

One of the patients shuffled their feet, before asking him, “What was it they put you in for?”

“Sorry?” he spluttered, not thinking.

“What’s your plight?” Another asked, more intelligently, making the previous voice scowl out of feeling stupid.

_ Think carefully _ , his mind warned. “I talk too much.”

There was a round of agreeable murmuring. “You’d get along with the father, then. Guy talks for hours, makes me wanna fuckin’ kill somebody sometimes, I swear.”

He didn’t know what they were talking about, but such is the case when conversing with madmen. He was just astounded that he still had all his limbs after being discovered.

“What are you all up to?” he asked, dumbly, but the casual way in which he asked them seemed to calm them down somewhat. You can’t talk logically, not to them. They took the question as if they had stopped on the sidewalk to chat.

“Huntin’,” one of them grinned. “Wanna have a go?” 

He looked down to the doctor, who was no longer smiling, if he ever was. “What?” he said, looking back up to the crowd, his voice dry from lack of use. 

One to his side snickered, pulling the doctor back up again, like how a rich dentist might present the head of the lion he just slaughtered. “We don’t mind sharing. Have at it.”

Oh. 

He stepped forward, coming further into the light. “I wouldn’t know where to start,” he muttered. It must be the jumpsuit, the thin material being the only thing that was protecting him. The rest he wore could have been scavenged, there’s plenty of bodies to choose from. He is an insider now. One of them. They’re not far off the mark. 

They laughed, pitying him. He is new to freedom, they must suppose. “Well, whatever you do, make sure there’s enough to go ‘round afterwards.”

The doctor trembled. “No, wait—” he began, before he was kicked in the gut. “Quiet, fucker.”

“I don’t want to intrude on your fun,” he excused. It was partly the truth. He doesn’t want any part of this. But if he does nothing then they’ll grow suspicious. Who inside here doesn’t want revenge? He wants revenge as well, but not like this. He just wants to get out alive, living is defiance in its own right. He licked his lips, conjuring up something new, something to flesh out his act. “He doesn’t look so fresh anyways, I don’t want your scraps. No offence,” he added.

More tense laughter. “Man of quality, I get it,” the smallest one nodded. It was impossible to tell the pecking order of this group, they were all leaders, all locking horns. Once they run out of prey, they’ll turn each other inside out. This place is a powder keg, he’s sweating through his jumpsuit, he can’t take much more of this.  _ Please just get me out the door, I’ll take care of the rest. Just get me out of here _ .

One of them, he hadn’t seen them come up to him, clapped him on the back. “You’re right - we all deserve better. This one’s no good anymore. Stick ‘im.”

There was a quiet ringing sound of someone unsheathing a metal and then driving it into something else, a glinting knife that was out then put away, stuffed into the neck of the doctor, who choked, coughed, then collapsed, spasming as he bled out. Some of the blood got onto Waylon’s shoes. He didn’t step out of it. The patient patted him on the back again. 

“Wanna join us?” they offered, as if they were asking if he wanted to go get a round of beers. 

Waylon just shook his head. “No thanks, I work alone.”

The patient nodded. “Not a fighter, I see. That’s fine by me. More for us, right, boys?”

They roared in unison. If they had swords they’d draw them. One of them even saluted. Waylon felt faint, watching the twitching arm of the doctor. He should feel sympathy, or horror, he didn’t like whatever he was currently feeling, which was nothing. Indifference in these situations is more damaging than fear. 

With one final pat on his back, the patient left his side. Whilst some of them tried to shove the body into one of the large washing machines, the rest watched him step towards the door. He wished he had blinkers on, like a racehorse, something to stop his eyes peeking out to the side, watching how they folded the doctor up like a piece of paper. When he got to the doorway, they hung in the doorway, wanting to send him off properly.

“You gonna be alright on your own?” They asked, sounding alarmingly human, as if they cared. Their moments of sanity were far more terrifying than their manic quarrelling. 

He nodded, smiling shakily, the gesture stretching his mouth uncomfortably. “I will.” He wanted to mention Eddie, wanting to see if the mere mention of the ex-patient would strike a reaction. “I’ve got company.”

“Good.” They seemed pleased, amused even. It only then occurred to him that Waylon hadn’t tricked them out of killing him, but rather they had spared him. “See you on the outside.”

He walked away and didn’t look back, only waiting a minute after he turned a corner to look back, and once he was sure he was far away to not be heard, he ran. And ran, and ran.

💮💮💮

“Eddie? Eddie?” he hissed, stalking the bathroom. His legs were sore, he wanted to sit down and eat, but not until he had found Eddie. The end stall was locked, he waited outside the door and whispered, “Eddie?”

“Darling?” came Eddie’s reply, followed by shuffling and the sound of the door being unlocked. 

He was met with the sight of Eddie, tall and powerful, a welcome constant. What’s beautiful is always beautiful, even when rife with blisters. There were new stains in the corner of his eyes. Has he been crying?

“You came back to me.” His voice sounded different, more dreamy. Waylon couldn’t find it in him to care. Whatever version of Eddie he’s returned to, it’s better than no Eddie at all. The ex-patient looked down to the laundry bag in his hand, taking it gently out of his grip and looked into it. “Darling, you shouldn’t have - all for me?” he asked, the blue in his eyes glinting abnormally. He turned around and pulled out the clothing. He looked over his shoulder, grinning at Waylon slyly, almost flirtatiously. He held the jumpsuit out in front of him, humming curiously. “An odd choice, but I trust your judgement, darling.” 

Waylon hung in the doorway shyly, watching Eddie pull on the white tank top from the locker room, then stepping into the jumpsuit, buttoning it all the way up to his neck, just like before all of this mess. Then he put on one of the pairs of socks and the black boots Waylon had wrestled off the feet of the dead guard. The leisurely way at which Eddie dressed himself made Waylon try to imagine that they were someone else. They were in a home, their home, in their bedroom. Eddie was getting ready to leave, for work, or to go for a walk. Waylon was watching him playfully, enjoying not just the view, but the sight of Eddie at peace, wearing the clothes that he had bought him the other day whilst they were in town. Down in their kitchen, there was coffee brewing and eggs cooking, and he could almost smell them if he thought hard enough.

Eddie stood back up from his shoes and looked over to him again, his bright smile faltering. “Darling? What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Waylon lied. Eddie sighed, walking to him and slinked a hand around Waylon’s waist, holding him against his chest. The action was so fluid, as if they’ve done this a thousand times before, an unspoken language that they knew fluently, the words written underneath their skin. Waylon stood stiffly against Eddie, his cheek against the damp grey cloth of his jumpsuit. Damp? 

He brought a hand to his cheek and felt tears. He angled his head upwards, and saw Eddie looking down at him, his expression so soft, so understanding. Waylon opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a choked gasp, and then he was crying again, sobbing quietly into Eddie’s chest, worrying about the tears and snot and sweat now staining the freshly laundered material.  _ At least it’s better than blood _ .

He felt Eddie kiss the top of his head, chuckling gently against his filthy hair. “What am I going to do with you, darling?”

He then realised that Eddie has yet to say his name since he woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like it so far? Leave a comment!


	6. Daffodils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Past chapter number three! I'm still curious to know if you like reading the chapters in this order, of it it gets confusing lol. Lemme know if you want to read the chapters consecutively since I got all the past chapter already written. Anways, enjoy!

**3O DAYS UNTIL BREAKOUT**

He made it home just before dawn and woke up just after midday. He hadn’t set an alarm —hadn’t even bothered to change out of his clothes or climb under the bedsheets— instead letting the sun and the heat be what roused him. Though the way he woke up wasn’t in as lovely a fashion as how the sunlight filtered into the bedroom. However, the sunlight did little to aid the pain that came with wrenching his eyelids apart. His whole body felt stiff, his throat tight and his head pounding; he felt hungover. And like a hangover, there came that hot stream of regret, beginning to flow through like boiling water, hurting him the more he tried to remember what happened in the night. 

The engine. White light and wires. Gluskin’s paralysed body. Cell 6. Eggs for breakfast and eternal daylight in the heart of a mountain.

Getting up slowly, Waylon allowed himself a moment to breathe and stretch before he properly acknowledged the day. Wanting to postpone waking up for as long as he could, he kept his eyes closed as he rose stretching his arms over his head and rolling his neck. The longer he kept his eyes shut, though, the more his mind supplied visions of Mount Massive and of a machine that churns out thunder and lightning. No. Not now. This is his day off, goddamnit. Time off from that hell is welcome, even if it was gifted to him out of spite. He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly to take in the sunlight rightly. For a moment, sitting in this room, letting the day come up to him like an old dog, hobbling and gentle, Waylon almost found an escape, the world just bright enough for him to place himself back in California. 

But then the sun went behind a cloud, greying the room only a fraction but dimming everything in the process. Waylon blinked, his stomach gurgling. Right, breakfast. Or more accurately, lunch. He had a craving for scrambled eggs on toast with a full mug of coffee on the side. 

Still in the clothes he had crashed into sleep in, Waylon got up to briefly wash his face before heading towards the kitchen, cracking open the refrigerator. Apart from a few cans of cheap beer and a decaying package of grapes, there wasn’t much for him. The breadbin and adjoining cabinets were equally barren, save for a few cans of soup and vegetables, none of which helped. Even the coffee tins were down to their last few granules. “Guess a trip out is in order,” Waylon muttered, scratching the back of his neck. 

Dressing brashly and chewing a random mint he found in a cupboard to soothe his stomach for a few minutes, Waylon left the house and got into his car, pleased to find that his phone had clear signal today and that the radio wasn’t being a temperamental box of static and country songs this time around. And as he drove, humming along to whatever mindless song the stereo played, cruising out of the dollhouse perfection of Leadville and past miles and miles of rugged mountains and sloping hills, it eventually hit him that, even amongst such vast landscape, he had yet to feel the familiar carnal tug of vanishing into the earth that had followed him ever since he came to Mount Massive. He no longer felt swallowable; he felt purposeful. Gluskin had spoken to him, looked at him. He has been seen; how can he abandon all of this now? 

💮💮💮

Denver was uneventful. Two hours towards and two hours back, with another two hours in between of milling around for eggs and bread and coffee. He should have written a list. It had occurred to him that any corner store in Leadville would have had everything, but he needed to depart from Leadville, even if it was to just go from one small town to a bigger one. He remembered some old wives tale about goldfish growing to fit the size of their tank, how one of his friends in grade school once swore that he put his goldfish in a bathtub whilst he was on holiday, and when he came into the bathroom to check on it, it was only a few inches shy of filling the tub completely. A nonsense story, of course, one that still made Waylon laugh, but he couldn’t help but feel just like that, like goldfish growing to the corners of its tank. Leadville was a glass bowl with a few coloured pebbles for decoration, a cell more so than a habitat. For such a quiet place, he always felt so precarious as he walked its streets and avenues. He felt watched, surveyed, like Murkoff had filled the town full of actors to pretend to be living in it, like those nuclear test towns from the fifties, populated with mannequins. He preferred bigger cities, somewhere he can vanish into, where he can be certain that he isn’t the strangest one there. Living in the shadow of an asylum hasn’t made him feel any saner, either. Worries of sleepwalking up the road and down into its depths have been plaguing him; of becoming an urban legend. A man walking barefoot up the mountain in his sleep, with no one to wake or warn him, for the townspeople weren’t real, or, even worse, they were hired to guide him up there in the first place. 

Plans of cooking breakfast/lunch for himself at home vanished the second he made it to Denver, shuffling into a cafe when his stomach had gone through all of his gum and expired car candy instead. He had felt guilty on the drive home (though he couldn’t exactly figure out why), but was overall grateful for the change of scenery, for a bigger fishbowl. 

💮💮💮

He called Lisa as he put away everything in the kitchen, already smiling when he heard her voice from where he laid his phone on the countertop. 

“Hey, dude,” greeted Lisa. There were other voices in the background, miscellaneous mutterings and the sounds of other phones ringing. She was still at the hospital.

“Hi - how’s it going?”

“You sound chipper,” she remarked suspiciously. “It’s freaking me out.”

“What? I can’t enjoy talking to you now?”

“Never. It’s your usual pessimistic mumbling or nothing. You can’t spend all your days being completely miserable in another state and then call sounding like you’ve got cartoon birds singing at your window.”

“Wow. Right. Sure. But answer my first question, yeah? How was your little thing with Mark?”

“ . . . ”

“C’mon Lis. Or I’ll spam call you for the rest of the day.”

“Okay, and whilst you exhaust your phone battery doing that, I’ll be doing my own thing. Gladly living my life, dutifully saving lives, and joyfully ignoring you.”

“Lisa,” Waylon insisted. “Please?”

“Nope. Sorry, bud. Not moving on this.”

“Can I at least guess as to what might have transpired between the two of you?”

“You can give it a whirl, Sherlock, but don’t expect me to play hot or cold with you. I’m a master at concealing my personal life - I ever tell you that I put my diary in a ziplock bag and hid it in the tank of our toilet growing up, just to stop Jen from reading it?”

“Fair enough.” He took a step back from the refrigerator he had just finished stocking, taking some matronly pride in how at least one part of the house doesn’t look completely devoid of all signs of life. There was even  _ fruit _ . Red apples and oranges. He reached out for an apple, picking off the sticker and sinking his teeth into the polished red skin. “Okay, well, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that it either went amazing or was a complete disaster. What did you end up wearing?”

“You wouldn’t know it if I told you.”

“Try me. Was it that purple dress? With the sequins?”

“How do you—”

“Because I know you. Whether you like it or not,” he laughed, taking another bite of his apple. “Oh god, Lisa, tell me he didn’t get any alcohol on it - it’s not your best outfit but it’s still decent enough without smelling of beer.”

“Waylon, drop it . . . I didn’t get anything spilled on me, okay? Came close a few times, granted, but nothing happened. The guy’s got a seriously short attention span, though. He’d look away and you had to push his hand before he dropped his glass.”

The two of them laughed, making Waylon feel lighter. It was always good to hear Lisa’s voice, and it was even better to hear her laugh. She has always been his remedy. 

“So what happened next? You head back to his place or what?”

“Nah, we called it a night at the bar. I made the mistake of wearing heels and the place was alarmingly crowded for a Monday night.”

“The lengths you go to for that man. Did you ever wear heels when we were together?”

“I did, once, but then people kept asking me if I was your mother.”

“Yeah, well, unlike Mark, I’m not some tall glass of stale lemonade.”

“Nice one,” Lisa chuckled. There was a comfortable pause before she spoke again. “I kind of wish I’d stayed around more, though. He was super sweet, if a little . . . distracted.”

“You should have dangled your keys in front of him.”

“Ha-fucking-ha.”

With a small smile he moved to stash the shopping bags in some cupboard for a rainy day; a habit he’d picked up from college, back when he was always short of liners for his trash can or he and his roommate needed something to vomit into after a night of drinking. He balled the first two up and threw them into a nondescript space, already reaching to pick up the third and final bag when he saw that there was one more item left inside: a carton of eggs, lying in a bed of white plastic at the bottom of the bag, like some bad dystopian version of a bird’s nest. Dipping a hand inside to retrieve them, he frowned as he lifted them out from the bag. For only six eggs, they felt remarkably heavy in his grip, weighed down with more than matter. A promise was attached to them; meaning always makes things ten times heavier.

He shook his head, laughing sparsely as he did so. Sweating over fickle promises about eggs was something he would never pin himself down as one prone to. He laughed louder. The mountain air was playing with him, padding the paneling of his lungs and stomach with dumb tenderness. 

“Waylon? Jeez, it wasn’t that good of a joke.” Lisa’s voice was a lifeline in that moment, stopping the bubbling laughter that was catching in his throat and clacking against his teeth. 

“You don’t think?” he quipped, veering back to his friend.

“You know that there’s nothing I hate more than people who think they’re funny.”

“Interesting fact. Did you tell it to Mark as you were hiding your fake-giggling behind your glass as he told knock-knock joke after knock-knock joke?”

“Ouch, Way. You really don’t see much in him, do you?”

“What’s wrong with knock-knock jokes?”

“Just because they don’t work on me when  _ you _ tell them, doesn’t mean that they don’t work on me full-stop.”

“Right. Totally. Of course.”

He moved the egg carton aside like a bad thought, picking up his phone and heading to the couch in the living room. Throwing himself onto the sofa’s lumpy stature with a groan, he let slip a question he hadn’t found a way to thread into the conversation yet. 

“Hey, so, by the way. How do you, like, cook eggs?”

“Eggs?” Lisa echoed. “I know the time zones are a little different over there but is it really only just gotten round to breakfast?”

“ _ Lisa _ .”

“Are you sure you should even be cooking? I know you’re trying out this macho look with the facial hair and whatnot, but unless you’ve got those whackass-looking hair nets for your beard then I seriously think you should avoid—”

“ _ Lisa _ !” he pleaded, his laughter breaking his act of desperation.

“Why eggs, though?” she continued.

“I, uh, miss your cooking.”

“Please,” Lisa said, the eye-roll in her tone blatant. “I’m pretty sure that in all the times I’ve come to your place bearing food for your malnourished ass, not once did I ever come with eggs. So, I’ll ask again: Why eggs?”

“Seemed as good a place to start as any,” he responded, looking up at the murky ceiling. Lisa wasn’t ready for the truth.  _ He _ himself wasn’t ready for the reality of the encumbered answer to a question so menial as ‘Why eggs?’.

“Okay . . . what kind of eggs, then?”

“Sorry?”

“Christ, Way, how have you made it this far in your adult life without knowing that there’s more than one way to cook eggs?”

“Because I’ve had you to hold my hand the entire time.”

“Aw - shut up.”

“Scrambled,” he declared, moving on from Lisa’s snark. “Scrambled eggs.”

“Huh. Thought you were more of an omelette kind of guy.”

“Scrambled eggs, Lisa. C’mon, help me out here.”

“Dude, I can’t play Paula Deen with you right now, my break’s ending. Can’t you just look it up yourself?”

“But you know how to explain everything in a Waylon-proof way. Come on, Lisa, talk slowly and in comprehensive detail to me. It can’t be hard.”

He heard a sigh and counted how many seconds she stayed silent, before grinning and already fleeing the couch in search for a pen and pad as he got to ten before hearing her groan, “Fine. Don’t expect me to baby step this shit out for you, though.”

Waylon thanked her profusely as he located a pen and a piece of scrap paper, excitement bubbling in the pit of his stomach. The sentiment in his throat boiling down into his blood; his veins singing at the prospect of cooking breakfast for a maniac. Anxiety still filled him, but in all the wrong places. He wanted to  _ impress _ Gluskin, to bring him a gift that sang clearly: I have seen you, heard you, listened to you. And I came back. 

💮💮💮

“You came back,” Gluskin noted, his eyes remaining closed as he lay on the bed, with one arm angled to cushion his neck and the other strewn across his vast torso. A leisurely pose, one that Waylon, even with someone as adept to asylum-living as Gluskin, would never suspect an inmate capable of. He almost looked comfortable.

“Yeah, I did.” His footsteps echoed as he approached the cell, stopping at the exact same safe spot he did the first time. 

One of Gluskin’s eyes cracked open, the motion so fluid it reminded Waylon of a reptile, drawing that third, secret translucent eyelid across its pupil. “And you come bearing gifts,” the patient mused, his gaze flickering to what Waylon held in his hands.

Waylon tapped the top of the plastic container, hoping that the vice-like grip he had on it was enough to keep it warm from when he prepared it this morning. An hour spent testing and tasting and trying to follow Lisa’s curt instructions to the letter. He had gotten up early to prepare it, too caught up in his desire to make it properly to realise how ridiculous the desire was itself. It wasn’t like Gluskin had been eating particularly lavishly down here, if the canteen food for just the employees was anything to go by, so why act as if a batch of poorly cooked eggs will ruin his palette any further?

Because he deserves better, Waylon reasoned as he stirred Gluskin’s breakfast that morning. Because I want to do this for him. For whatever reason. 

“Eggs for breakfast, as requested. I forgot about the clock. Sorry.” He saw how Gluskin’s brow seemed to twitch when he apologised. He didn’t mention it, instead choosing to just stand and stare at him dumbly, waiting for Gluskin to respond, his heart lodged in his throat. 

“How nice of you,” Gluskin replied, his expression bordering on whimsical before winding back into its stern posture. “You shouldn’t have listened to me, though. Doing all that just because I asked, they’ll think I bribed you. They say I’m prone to manipulation.”

“Well, then consider me manipulated,” Waylon half-smiled. Gluskin seemed less pleased.

“Regardless, how thoughtful of you,” said Gluskin. “Wish I could try it.”

Waylon’s heart plummeted. “Why can’t you?” he rebuked, emotion edging into his voice too soon.

“They wouldn’t let me,” Gluskin stated simply, pushing himself up and off the bed. “They won’t let you give it - fancy clearance pass and all,” he explained, lacking any of Waylon’s conviction, sounding more bored than defeated. “I’m amazed you even got this far with it.”

“I got this far  _ because _ of my fancy-ass clearance,” said Waylon, his grip on the container wavering. Embarrassment threatened to knock it out of his hands and laugh him out of the room. The glaring overhead lights seemed to shine brighter than they did last time, they were looking down at him accusingly, mockingly. How had he not thought of this? Ambition and his pathetic desperation to seem like some gracious saviour to Gluskin had overridden any and all practicality. Idiot.

“And what did those bastards at the door think of you?” asked Gluskin, waltzing over to the desk against the wall. “Walking up to my cell, with every intention of giving one of their prize subjects eggs for breakfast?” He lazily picked through the pieces of paper lying on the desk, the purple crayon rolling off to the side, about to fall off before Gluskin stopped it with a single finger. 

“I don’t know. I didn’t stay long enough to ask,” Waylon muttered. Gluskin looked up from the desk and the two of them locked eyes; Gluskin’s steel blue versus his own deep brown. He tried to remember how Gluskin’s eyes looked in the gross mouth of the engine, wide and rimmed with fright. None of those tears lied here now, they had been frozen off.. In fact, there were few indications of that night; his jumpsuit had either been cleaned or changed, the blossoming spots of blood vanished clean off the grey cotton. Even the way Gluskin carried himself as he stood and walked showed no signs of him hurting. This wasn’t the man Waylon saw shaking in his bed, so monstrous but so fragile, not truly. The frame was there, but the image he saw that wretched Monday night had been painted over. A bad dream.

But Gluskin just chuckled; a dark, rich, sound that ended as soon as it had begun. With a giant hand, he pulled the simple chair out from under where it was resting underneath the desk and sat down in it, facing Waylon still as he rested his right elbow on the desk and crossed his legs. In that moment, sitting there so gentlemanly, he reminded Waylon of those fifties ads, back when smart illustrations of men and women were still trusted in place of photographs, their clothes bright and their smiles wide as they laughed with red mouths and white teeth, vendoring a neatly drawn packet of cigarettes or bottle of gin in their perfectly crafted hands. He looks as if he was ripped from that exact time like a page from a newspaper. He should be smiling brilliantly with a glass of scotch in one hand and a flawlessly designed woman in the other. Instead he was here, not a drawing but painfully human and with no perfectly crafted counterparts to laugh and drink with. 

Waylon eventually discovered that Gluskin’s staring was a sign to start talking. At least he wasn’t telling him to leave. Maybe, like Waylon, he had re-learnt a taste for conversation. Before he could start one though, Gluskin beat him to it.

“So, with breakfast ruined, what’s left for you to do today? I hope it’s more interesting than what I’ve got planned.”

Waylon smiled, shrugging as he spoke. “Nothing much. Wondering all over the place until someone sent by someone tells me where to go.”

“And just exactly what is it that people ask you to do?”

“I’m a software engineer. When something goes wrong, and it has a screen and wires coming out of it, people tell me to fix it. Or at least, that’s all I get to do here.”

Gluskin nodded slowly, trying to look interested but Waylon recognised the glossed-over look in his eyes; it was the exact same look people have always given him when he explains his job to them. Just because his job was an important one doesn’t mean that it’s an interesting one. Unless their computer’s broken, in which case you’re suddenly fascinating.

“It’s okay,” Waylon reassured. “You’re not the only person that doesn’t get it. Even my parents don’t fully understand it - my grandparents think I’m an electrician.”

For a split second, Gluskin appeared sheepish at Waylon’s acknowledgement of his confusion, his eyes leaving Waylon’s for a fraction. “How long have you been here, then?” Gluskin asks. “Not long, obviously.”

Waylon raised an eyebrow. “How can you tell?”

“You’re too empathetic. And you’re talking to me - which means no one has told you not to.”

“What makes you so special that I can’t talk to you?” Waylon challenged, another smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Absolutely nothing. I’m quite unremarkable,” Gluskin sniffed, brushing some imaginary dust off from his knee. “The real question is, what makes me so special to you, that you’ve brought me breakfast?”

He shrugged again. “Absolutely nothing,” he grinned. “You asked for my name, after you saw me.” It was a proper answer to Gluskin’s question. An honest truth that Waylon hoped he spoke to quietly for Gluskin to hear. But in the silence of the cell, it was impossible to elude Gluskin’s attention. The patient’s eyes widened, before he composed himself once more, now focusing on rolling the crayon around on his desk.

“I did.”

“Why?” He didn’t want to take things too far, for fear of pushing Gluskin away if he pressed him for too much at once, but he couldn’t deny his curiosity anymore. 

“I’m not sure,” Gluskin answered. “I’m wondering that myself.”

“Seems kind of unfair though,” said Waylon. “You know my name, manipulated me into making you eggs, and yet I don’t know your own name.”

Gluskin frowned. “It’s on the door, is it not?”

He rolled his eyes. “Come on, don’t be difficult.” The casual way with which he spoke must have startled Gluskin into looking up from his desk, his expression different from its usual, cloudy form. Feeling confident, Waylon goaded him further. “I know the Gluskin part - that’s hard to forget, but what about the ‘E’ bit? Ethan? Emmerson? Elvis?”

“Eddie,” Gluskin conceded.

“Eddie,” Waylon repeated, trying the name on his tongue like a new flavour. “I don’t know any Eddies.”

“Now you do.” Gluskin sounded tired. He had said his name as if it was forbidden; years of being referred to as ‘Gluskin’ or ‘No. 196’ and now some stranger wants to know his name. It was a landmark, a sign of progress. Waylon took it as a token of trust, trying to not let pride overtake him as he talked to Gluskin. To  _ Eddie _ . 

“What about you then?” Waylon continued. “What’s your day looking like?”

As he asked, a sound ruptured the silence between them. It came not from the room, but close enough; a shattering groan that must be echoing all throughout this half of the downstairs area. Hardly human, but there was an echo of a human pain about it. A familiar, supernatural sound. The Morphogenic Engine. 

“My day looks as it sounds,” Gluskin answered in a pocket of time where the sound was muffled briefly.

“How often do you have to . . .” Waylon began, not quite knowing how to finish.

“A day? No idea. I barely know what year it is, let alone which hours I spend in here or in their filthy machines,” Gluskin spat. Waylon flinched at the acidity in his voice, even though he knew that none of it was meant for him. Or maybe it was. Did Gluskin see him last night, face pressed against the observation deck, looking down on his suffering amidst the thunderous rage of the engine? All that trust, whatever feeble amount their two proper interactions had gathered, would evaporate. Gluskin would unlearn Waylon’s name, leaving Waylon alone with Gluskin’s. They would be free of each other; cutting the stem before anything had the chance to bloom from it. 

The engine’s cry ceased, and they were left in silence once more.

“I’ll send you a calendar then,” Waylon offered. “One of those with different breeds of kittens in teacups and bows. Along with a clock.”

A switch was flicked in Gluskin’s mind, the previous spite powering him melting away in place of something softer. He smiled. Or smirked. Another small landmark. “You’re spoiling me.”

“Hardly,” Waylon admitted. “Wanna add anything else to the list?”

“You can’t get any of it through the glass, Waylon. Whatever you push through that—” he pointed his slippered toe to the slot at the bottom of the glass, a narrow food slot not far off the floor— “wil end up being removed the second you go” 

“It’s a fantasy, Eddie. Fantasise.”

Eddie leaned further back in his seat, its flimsy structure creaking slightly under the pressure of his weight. His smile stayed, and, the longer it remained, the more Waylon found it difficult to picturing himself leaving Cell 6. He knows that later he will feel exhaustion take him, only realising when he is separated from Gluskin what a roller coaster that talking to the patient actually is. Gluskin was a wind with no direction, a circle of fire forever extinguishing and advancing. Conversation was sink or swim, and Waylon didn’t know which was more practical. For now, while the waters are calm, he shall stay and paddle. He watched as Eddie looked around his cell, probably conjuring a completely fantastical wishlist. Despite its sparsely decorated state, Waylon had never fully registered how cavernous it was. He couldn’t help but feel it was some sick joke from Murkoff, to give a man a cell with ceilings so tall, a floor so wide and walls so clean and yet keep him underground and with nothing to put inside his dwellings but his own thoughts. It was an abandoned toy chest, an empty birdcage for Gluskin to rattle around inside.

Licking his lips beforehand, Gluskin thought out loud. “A view. More than anything, a view. I want to see the sunrise. I miss morning.”

All Waylon could do was nod. “Right.”

They looked towards each other, Waylon feeling a silent ripple pass between them. An unkeepable promise that will be broken a thousand times before it ever comes true. How he ached to give Gluskin that view, more than he longed to give him a cat calendar or a clock or breakfast. He coughed. “Have you ever been . . . ?” 

“Upstairs?” Gluskin completed. “Rarely. I have therapy in one of their above offices, but always in the evening. I’ve been lucky to see the sunset, but never to see it rise. I worry that I’ll forget that it has the ability to do so.” He shifted in his seat. “What’s it like, up there? In the morning.”

Waylon’s mouth opened and closed several times, trying to find the words whilst Gluskin watched him, trying his best to mask his childlike anticipation. Eventually, he responded, with his voice just above a whisper, “It’s . . . clean. Like when you press your hand against a cold piece of glass. It’s too much sometimes - too hot, too bright, too orange, then too pink and purple, and then too blue. You feel small, like you’re at the bottom of the ocean and all you can do is look up.”

“And the mountains?” Gluskin breathed. “The trees?”

“The trees shake even when there’s no wind. At night it can be scary, but during the day, it seems friendly, like a greeting. And the mountaintops are grand . . . like towers. From far enough, they look painted. Perfect.” He wasn’t one for poetry, especially in circumstances like now. He wished he could bottle up all the mornings he’s seen during his time in Leadville. Why had he never thought to take pictures? Perhaps he should make Gluskin an album of sorts, compiled of every hour that passed the mountains. He’ll worry about smuggling it to him later, or maybe he’ll just sit before Gluskin’s desk and turn the pages for him. He’d do that. He will. If that’s what it takes to bring the morning down to Gluskin. To Eddie.

Gluskin was looking at him, but it was clear that his mind wasn’t in it; he was lost in Waylon’s talk of skies that swallow you whole and trees that wave to you in the morning and shake their leafed fists at you in the evening. Waylon felt guilty, guilty that he was a mouthpiece for life outside the asylum. Guilty that only one of them could leave and see every morning and night they desired. His clumsy attempts at waxing poetic about the sky mean nothing, the photographs he’d take will be worthless. But he can try. God, he can try.

“Waylon?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank-you,” Gluskin said, bowing his head slightly. Such a gentleman.

“You’re welcome. I wish there was more I could do.” It was easy to say because it was the honest truth. How badly did he want to laugh at himself; nearly two months here without speaking to anyone and the first person he attempts friendship with is in a cell. What would Lisa think? What would a more saner version of himself do?

Gluskin shook his head. “There’s nothing you can do. But I appreciate . . . this. Whatever it is.” Gluskin’s honesty sounded almost humorous. Neither of them can believe what’s transpiring. “You should go now, before I manipulate you into bringing me anything else. Your eggs will get cold if you stay here any longer.”

“Right, sure. Forgot you were insane.” It was a joke, and a poor one at that. It was untouched ground that he had just stepped onto, his body tensing as Gluskin processed what he said, the patient’s expression faltering.

“Do I seem insane to you?” he asked, his tone pensive, almost nervous. The comfort that had cushioned their interaction before had turned into wet stone, leaving Waylon lost and scrambling for purchase.

“No,” Waylon confessed quietly. 

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.” Their voices were so silent now. How quickly things became treacherous between them. Damn this room where every breath seems like blasphemy.

“Do I scare you?”

“No.”

“I should.” Gluskin didn’t sound sure as he said it. They weren’t his own words, but a line he had been fed.

“I know,” Waylon accepted. “And that’s what scares me.”

He backed away, muscle memory directing him to the door. “I’ll bring you the sky - just you wait.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Gluskin quipped.

He offered him a weak smile. “I’ll come back,” he promised.

“I hope so.”

💮💮💮

Blaire didn’t need him tonight; he was left out of Gluskin’s torture this time.  _ Eddie _ , not Gluskin. He must do better to remember that. 

He had eaten the scrambled eggs for his lunch, wondering if they’d taste better with something else. Someone else to eat them with, ideally. It was foolish to think that he’d somehow get through to Eddie with his inept breakfast-making skills. But it was worth it; he saw the patient smile, heard him laugh, watched him as though there wasn’t a cell keeping them apart. Apart from doing what, though? He can’t imagine them knowing each other in any other capacity. In a way the cell was a necessary border, not for Waylon’s protection, but to remind them that whatever they think is going to happen can never be. The glass serves as an anchor, the cell being the ship’s hull, granting the two of them a swaying privacy below the storm raging above. 

On his drive back into Leadville, he made sure to remember as much as could, cramming every detail into his memory like wooden blocks into a toy chest. He even stopped a few times down the mountain, standing in the dipping sunlight to take pictures on his phone, knowing the entire time that doing this was beyond madness. Barely two interactions with a madman buried in the depths of a mountain and here he stood, trying to get the best image he could to show Eddie later. Why do all of this so suddenly? So passionately? Was he really that lonely? Had seeing first-hand the kind of hell the inmates of Mount Massive Asylum really scarred his heart so much? Perhaps it wasn’t just the patients the engine had infected. Eddie had reached his hand out from the darkness, a wild grab for humanity, and Waylon, whether he knew it fully or not, had gripped his palm back. 

But what would this lead to? At best, nothing. At worst, Eddie would wrenched Waylon’s hand and drag him into the darkness. ‘ _ They say I’m prone to manipulation _ .’ That was his first warning, the first ripple, but Waylon had waded in regardless, promising Eddie the sky before he left. 

Cut to him now, then, in bed, his laptop in his lap and casting a shallow glare over his features. He had managed to find a spot with internet and wanted to make the most of it before some cloud moved overhead and ended his online venture for tonight. A quick look at the time at the bottom corner of the screen told him that he had been procrastinating for too long, opting to waste his time reading useless news articles and scrolling mindlessly through whatever social media he could be bothered to pull up. The truth was, was that he was, for lack of a better word, scared of his real reason for getting his laptop out. He could have done it on his phone, not even ten minutes after talking to Eddie, even, and yet he wanted to make this all official somehow, hence the laptop and the late hour and the surmounting pressure threatening to fry his nerves. 

He took some deep breaths, tensing his knuckles. He felt as though electricity could fly from his fingertips as he typed in Eddie’s name. He didn’t even have time to blink before the search engine regurgitated a thousand articles and websites just for him. Stupid, he thought. So stupid to expect any result than the ones lying in a neat row of blue links on the screen sat infront of him. 

He numbly read the headings, randomly clicking on an article and ignored how his eyes stung as he read the newspaper titles. After an hour, it didn’t take long for him to compile the most indelible headlines the internet had churned out.

**_THIRD WOMAN TO DISAPPEAR IN A MONTH AS OCPD NARROW SEARCH AFTER BEING ACCUSED OF INACTION BY VICTIMS’ FAMILIES_ **

**_POSSIBLE SUSPECT BEHIND MISSING WOMEN TAKES OFF AFTER POLICE BEGIN TO REACH CONCLUSIONS_ **

**_COPS FOUND ‘GRAVEYARD’ IN BACKYARD OF GLUSKIN’’S CHILDHOOD HOME_ **

**_POLICE MET WITH OUTCRY AS SEARCH FOR GLUSKIN NEARS THREE MONTH MARK WITH NO NEW LEADS_ **

**_HOUSE OF HORRORS - GLUSKIN’S HOME WAS A ‘PLAYGROUND FOR THE UNTHINKABLE’ SAYS CHIEF IN LATEST ADDRESS_ **

**_BRIDES OF BLUEBEARD - VICTIMS WERE BUTCHERED IN BASEMENT AND THEN BURIED WEARING PIECES OF GLUSKIN’S MOTHER’S WEDDING ATTIRE_ **

**_FORENSICS UNABLE TO IDENTIFY SIXTH BODY IN GARDEN GRAVEYARD_ **

**_OKLAHOMA ‘LADY KILLER’ TRIES TO CLAIM FIFTH VICTIM IN DESPERATE BREAK FOR ESCAPE AS POLICE CLOSED IN_ **

**_LADY KILLER FINALLY ARRESTED AFTER NEARLY FOUR MONTH LONG RUN FROM POLICE_ **

**_POLICE REPORT GLUSKIN WAS ‘MANIC AND UNCONTROLLABLE’ DURING HIS ARREST_ **

**_HANDSOME DEVIL; GLUSKIN EXITS COURTROOM TO SWARM OF ADMIRERS AND PROTESTERS ALIKE_ **

**_DEFENSE SAY GLUSKIN’S MIND WAS A ‘HIVE FOR UNTREATED MENTAL ILLNESS’ AND HAS BEEN ‘PLAGUED WITH HALLUCINATIONS AND MANIC EPISODES’ ALL HIS LIFE_ **

**_THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY - LAST LIVING VICTIM OF ‘THE GROOM’ GIVES POWERFUL TESTIMONY TODAY IN COURT_ **

**_DISTRICT ATTORNEY SAYS THAT GLUSKIN’S METHODS OF KILLING SHOW ‘A COMPLETE LACK OF SOUL OR REASON’ AS OKLAHOMA LADY KILLER FOUND NOT GUILTY BY REASON OF INSANITY_ **

**_INFAMOUS OKLAHOMA ‘LADY KILLER’ SITS SILENT AS JUDGE READS VERDICT_ **

**_GLUSKIN TO ‘SPEND THE REST OF HIS LIFE IN TREATMENT’ ACCORDING TO COURT JUDGE RULING_ **

**_‘I DON’T WANT HIM TO GET BETTER; I WANT HIM TO ROT’ FAMILIES OF VICTIMS ARE LEFT DEVASTATED AND ANGRY BY FINAL RULING_ **

He had to force himself to stop reading. He bookmarked a few other sites, pretending that’d he be able to gather the courage to read another line anytime soon. Shame had blanketed him as he leaned back from his laptop, wrapping it’s wiry arms around his neck, choking him. Six victims. Six lives, taken by one man. A man he had smiled at, spoken to, made fucking scrambled eggs for. Lord, what was he thinking? The people Gluskin had left hurting are the same people who’d give anything to be in Waylon’s position. He has a front row seat to the man’s perpetual torture in a hole in the earth and chooses to feel  _ sorry _ for him. 

‘ _ They say I’m prone to manipulation _ .’

Had he really been manipulated, though? He wasn’t the only one seemingly taken with Gluskin. As he had scrolled, he found numerous crappily made HTML sites, some solely dedicated to ‘America’s Killers’, some were blatant fanpages for self-proclaimed ‘hybristophiliacs’, whilst the rest were just true crime fanatics. Was Waylon really one of these people? He thought stuff like that was absent in him. A special brand of loneliness, a kind of bile that builds up in the stomach of middle-aged divorcees in search of the true ‘alpha male.’ Gluskin didn’t seem like an alpha male. He seemed subdued.

And then there were the grainy crime scene photos, clipped from online archives:

A shaky-looking Victorian home, in the middle of a grey Oklahoma field with an equally grey sky hanging above it. It was a wide shot, the police cars strewn across the house’s front looking more like black and white bricks than vehicles. 

Then a garden, overgrown and neglected, the only indication that it was separated from the miles of field surrounding it being a few elderly shrubs. Close to the shrubs, casked over by weeds lied six graves, dug-up and exposed, all of the crime scene paraphernalia dotted around the open earth like lip piercings circling an open mouth. The position of the photo forgave the sight of the bodies that once lied in them.

Next, the victims. They had exchanged their graves in Gluskin’s backyard for the steel surface autopsy tables. They were arranged in a single neat row, the silver edges of the tables they lied on made Waylon think of them as valuable dolls still kept in their boxes, vintage, but clearly used. When he blinked a second later, he realised that these weren’t dolls. These were women. His women. His victims. His brides. Like the headlines said, they were all wearing a different piece of wedding attire. From his mother. One wore gloves, their thin white lace stained brown from the decaying hands wearing them. Another wore a necklace. Another; earrings. The fourth one wore white heels, with the last one left wearing the veil, the material forgivingly pulled over her beaten face. The delicate pieces were ill-suited to the corpses that donned them. Like putting pearls in the eye sockets of a dead pig. Some were . . . fresher than others, so much so that if you looked past the scarring and the shredded skin, you could see lipstick still smeared around their mouths. Only one was missing from the scene; the sixth victim forensics couldn’t identify. Why wasn’t she permitted the same luxuries as the others? What made her so dirty, so unworthy of Gluskin’s mother’s blessing?

Underneath the photo was the caption. ‘Photograph taken during the autopsy reports of —from back to front— Theresa Berger (34), Andrea Palomo (26), Sherry Greer (25), Carolyn Abbott (36), Melonie Valdez (24), sixth body has not yet been identified’.

Lastly, Gluskin. His mugshot, to be precise. It was chilling how little had changed about him. He was less marked in the photo, the very same expressionless gaze he first saw him in monitoring room 5. Same severe features, same intense blue eyes. The only difference was time and his haircut, which somehow look stranger than the one he sported now. No shaved sides, no sharp crop of hair. His hair looked more styled, sleeker and fuller; the kind of neatly parted comb-over that actors would have sported in sixties movies. He looked good. Pretty. Remarkably healthy and put together for someone who had done what he had done.

There were cracks, though, as he looked further. He may not be sporting an expression in the photo, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t a sense of it. There was a barely contained rage in the red edges of his eyes, in the taught corners of his frown, in the few thin strands of hair that had dared to fall out from their sculpted place. Did his victims see all this too? Or was it too late before they realised? How had he lured them? Did he know what he was capable of? What he’s still capable of? Did these women all for the same facade, suspecting nothing because there was nothing to suspect? How is he any better than them?

A gross notion of guilt followed him for the rest of the night as he tried his best to fall asleep. He had half a mind to continue his uncovering of Eddie Gluskin, but he smothered the idea as violently as it had formed. He had learnt more than enough for several lifetimes and then some. Whatever was left was just fodder for his unwanted fascination with patient No. 196. The worst part though, the most disgusting part of this whole affair, the one thing that truly rocked Waylon to his core, was the fact that, after all he had learnt about Gluskin, there was still a part of him in Cell 6, living across the glass with the killer. A part of him he’d have to return downstairs to take back. A part he didn’t know if he had the kind of strength to ask for Eddie to give back. A part that Gluskin held tightly in his hand and would squeeze on occasion, reminding him he had him.

💮💮💮

He lifted his eyes and saw a grey Oklahoman sky above him. Beneath him, from where he lay, earth cushioned his back. He could feel the soil against his skin, in his hair, between his fingers from where he gripped the bouquet to his chest. A bouquet? How thoughtful. And from the smell, he could tell that it was lavender. His favourite. 

He licked his lips and tasted rain, the promise of a storm. Thunder was churning far off, but he couldn’t see any further than the rectangle of sky above him. The more he blinked, the more he realised where he was. Where he lay.

This was his grave, his place beside the others in the garden. The final bride. Walls made of soil and grasping roots climbed up to his side, containing him. All that was left to do was close the lid. 

He lifted a hand to his mouth, curious. His fingertips came back red, covered in the velvet paint of lipstick. He ran a hand down his stomach and felt satin glide across his palm. Ah.

His mouth curled, but he couldn’t tell which way up it curved. There was some sick satisfaction to be taken in being crowned the favourite. The others got the gloves, the jewelry, the shoes, the veil, but  _ he _ got the dress. Him. Not those other whores. They should count themselves lucky that they even made it out of the basement.

The sky dimmed then, but only partly. He smiled up towards the opening of his grave, and his husband, shovel in hand, smiled back down. He couldn’t help but laugh, joy overriding his sense. His husband looked so handsome, grinning down at him, wearing the suit he knew, he  _ knew _ , drove Waylon crazy whenever he wore it. He laughed more, clenching the bouquet harder to try and control himself but he couldn’t stop himself. He was just so happy. He didn’t stop laughing when his husband began to shovel dirt down into his grave, he didn’t stop when the earth started to cover his ears, his neck, his hands, he didn’t stop when the soil began to eek into his mouth, choking him. He was so beside himself, that he barely noticed when other people joined his husband at the edge of his grave; his bridesmaids, the other whores laughing down at him maniacally, doubling over their own withered bouquets. It had barely registered to him when his husband’s wedding suit had turned grey, with the numbers ‘196’ written on the chest. Or when his grave had turned into a cell, the earth replaced with filtered air and the dress he wore had evaporated and left him in his own jumpsuit. And yet, without realising it, his laughing had turned into screaming, and yet he couldn’t hear himself, all he could feel was his mouth splitting in half from how wide it lied open. His husband, his groom, has left him, gone off with those whores and had left him to rot inside the belly of the beast, in the acidic gut of Mount Massive. 

And all he could do was scream, even when the white clinical light above him was shut off and left him drowning in sheer black. All there was to do was scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things only get better/worse from here on out (depending on your outlook lol), but I hope you like the story so far!!


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